The Crime Club

by Frank Froest

  More than once a surprise descent of officers, armed with a search warrant, had been made on his cosy flat on the north side of Regent’s Park. He would receive them mildly, with a resigned shrug of the shoulders, as one who is the subject of unjust annoyance, against which no protests would avail. On the last occasion it was Almack, newly promoted divisional detective-inspector of the 12th Division, who was confident that the Goat knew a great deal more than he ought of a weekend robbery of specie from a West End manufacturing goldsmith. He dropped swiftly down upon the flat with a couple of his staff. Three thousand ounces of gold cannot be disposed of in a hurry, and he hoped by rapidity of action to catch O’Brien before he had time to get rid of it.

  It took a full five hours to convince him that wherever else the gold was it was not in the flat. The Goat, with a subtle irony that was not lost on the inspector, produced champagne.

  ‘You’ve got your duty to do, gentlemen, and I don’t complain. I’ve been a crook, and I’ve got enough to live on. I’ve no need to get in the game again. I just hate to see you wasting your time.’

  Almack wiped his damp brow. The shifting of furniture is heavy work for amateurs.

  ‘We’ll get you, Goat,’ he said definitely. ‘You’re clever, I own, and you’ve done us down this time, but we’ll get you. Don’t you make any error.’

  The Goat shook his grey head reprovingly. ‘I believe you would—if you got a chance,’ he admitted. ‘But, as I said, I’ve enough to live on, and I’m side-stepping all work on the cross. It would save your people a lot of trouble if you’d believe me. Well, here’s promotion.’ He lifted a thin-stemmed wineglass and sipped lovingly. ‘Did I ever tell you how I lifted a parcel of diamonds from the Rietfontein post office?’ He sighed. ‘That was in the old days. And mind you, the diamond field police were smart men.’

  He saw them urbanely off the premises, even offering to send for his car to take them back to headquarters. But Almack was in no mood to accept further civilities. ‘A bus will do for us, thanks,’ he retorted. ‘See you again some other time. So long.’

  ‘Drop in whenever you’re passing,’ said O’Brien. ‘Always pleased to see you or any of your friends, Mr Almack.’

  Not until they were out of hearing did Almack say the things that were burning within him. To fail was bad enough. To be taunted by the old man in the presence of his subordinates was worse. But worst of all was the knowledge that the department would know that he, the last created ‘D.D.-I.,’ had wrecked a lance against the Goat and been ignominiously unhorsed. He swore fervently.

  The ‘under-world,’ as the pictures call it, is no freemasonry society of brothers. It is only by chance that its inhabitants get to know one another, for there are no obvious signs by which a crook betrays himself as other than a law-abiding citizen. Consequently, when a mild-looking, little old man moved slowly out through the swing-doors of the Great Southern and Northern Bank in Holborn and signalled a bus, Big Rufe had no conception that he was beholding in the flesh a fellow-crook as far above him as the stars. All that he saw was, in his own vocabulary, a possible ‘mark.’

  Times were bad with Rufe, and though his trousers were carefully creased and his sleek black hair was parted in the centre as definitely as though by a sword cut, he had only five small silver coins in his pocket. For seven days he had sat before the same marble-topped table at a restaurant that commanded a view of the portals of the bank and spent most of his time chewing a toothpick and watching. Three times had he seen the feeble little man with the vague face enter and emerge, and from the mass of the bank’s customers he had decided that this was the one Providence indicated as the instrument which was to provide him with the means of life for a period.

  His hand dropped to a pocket. Rufe’s limitations might have been gathered from the fact that he carried a heavy seven-shot automatic. No big professional criminal, in England at least, carries arms as a usual thing. It makes a big difference in the sentence to be found with a weapon. There are other ways of offence and defence.

  One minute later he had swung himself on to the bus that contained O’Brien, and the listless eyes of the old man rested on him indifferently as he took his seat. Rufe met them with equal indifference, and presently stooping, picked up a coin from the floor. ‘Did you drop this, sir?’ he said politely.

  The Goat stretched out a thin hand. ‘Thank you very much. Must have slipped down while I was paying the conductor.’

  Rufe saw one-fifth of his worldly wealth vanish into the pocket of his destined victim. Though he mentally condemned him as a ‘tight wad,’ he smiled philosophically.

  After all, it was an investment. He flashed a hand forward—a hand that boasted a big imitation diamond set in a gold ring.

  ‘Rotten weather, ain’t it?’ He imagined he had the society accent to perfection. ‘Looks as if we hadn’t finished with the rain yet. Say, is it always wet like this in London?’

  Not a change in O’Brien’s face showed that he recognised the awkward gambit of the unskilled confidence man. Rufe had conveyed that he was a stranger in the metropolis. The big diamond on his finger showed that he was a man of wealth. His accent was meant to show that he was a man of culture.

  The Goat folded up the paper which he was reading. ‘Sonny,’ he said gently, ‘if you get off this bus you will soon find a constable. Tell him you’ve lost yourself, and get him to hand you over to your nurse. She’ll take you home and tuck you up in your little bed. London’s a big place for an innocent youth to get lost in. There’s a lot of wicked characters about, and you never know when you might get taken in.’

  Rufe’s jaw dropped. For a second the devil peeped out of his green eyes and his fists clenched. His chagrin and disappointment were plain for anyone to witness. He spat out a malevolent oath. The Goat’s eyes half closed as though he had lost all interest in the incident.

  ‘You—’ Words failed Rufe, and he choked.

  ‘Count twenty slowly,’ advised the Goat solemnly.

  Rufe could have broken the frail body of the older man between his two hands. He pushed his head forward until he was within a couple of inches of the other’s face.

  ‘Say you,’ he demanded, with all the intensity of malice he could inflect into his voice. ‘You gimme back my shilling or I’ll eat you up.’

  O’Brien folded his thin hands in his lap. ‘I think not,’ he said placidly. ‘I think not.’

  Had he shown anything like aggressive defiance, Rufe was in a state of mind to carry out his threat. But the cool confidence of the Goat somehow deterred him while it did not lessen his anger. A sort of vanity which is one of the distinguishing characteristics of men of his type was hurt at his designs being frustrated. He glared inarticulate.

  When the Goat descended from the bus he was aware that six feet of wrath was dogging him. He walked homeward serenely contemptuous. It did not even amuse him that he had been selected for the crude experiment of Big Rufe. He knew that the other was raw at the game, otherwise he would not have lost his temper. He knew, too, that Rufe was keeping him in sight in hope of finding an opportunity to give physical effects to his passion. That, too, worried him little. In streets as well policed and as frequented as those through which he had to pass, no assault could be committed with impunity. He had other affairs to think of than this trivial encounter with a minor crook.

  That contempt was where the luck which for half a century had been his handmaid deserted him. Had Rufe been the rawest detective patrol, the most stupid of plain-clothes constables, the Goat would have been warily on his guard. If he thought of the matter at all, it was merely that his follower’s passion would evaporate when he found that there was no chance of violence. He slurred into his block of flats without even turning his head.

  Now five minutes or more before, Rufe, who was not altogether a fool, had resigned himself to seeing his victim escape for the time being. He recognised that he had made a mistake, and though he was still sore, his first anger had passed. He
was capable of more or less sound reasoning. He had no very clear idea, but he was certain that somehow, if he could hit on it, there was a way of digging money out of the little old man who had not only bilked him out of his money but administered such a nasty jolt to his self-esteem.

  He walked boldly up to the lounging janitor at the doorway.

  ‘What’s the name of that bloke that’s just gone in?’ he demanded bluntly. ‘Skinny little chap with a grey beard.’

  ‘What y’ wanto know for?’

  Rufe was more in his element at this kind of thing. He lowered his voice mysteriously, and glanced round with melodramatic emphasis.

  ‘Sh. I’m a split—a “tec,” y’ know. I can’t tell y’ all about it, but he looks like a man we want. I’m not sure. I’m only going by what I remember of a photograph.’

  ‘I reckon you’ve made a bad miss this time,’ said the attendant. ‘He’s no gaol-bird. His name’s O’Brien, and he’s got pots of splosh. Runs a motor and Lord knows what all. I’ve been here six months and always found ’im a perfect gentleman. You’d never guess he was an American.’

  The name O’Brien is a fairly common one. It never occurred to Rufe to associate it with the Goat, otherwise he might have hesitated. He pulled at his top lip.

  ‘Looks like a bloomer, don’t it?’ he said frankly. ‘We all make mistakes. Still, you can’t be too sure. Since I’ve wasted me time comin’ here I shall have to make a report. Tell me what you know about him.’ Another of his precious shillings passed.

  This time, however, he was satisfied with his investment. He had pumped the janitor dry before he walked thoughtfully away. His idea was beginning to take shape. He was no pendent specialist. When he wanted money, methods didn’t matter. Results were all that concerned him. And he wanted money badly.

  Exactly at half-past two in the morning Big Rufe drove his fist on to the point of the jaw of the drowsy night porter whose sleep for a couple of hours thereafter was sounder if no more refreshing. But ten minutes later the Goat awoke.

  It was a proof of the soundness of his nerves that he merely opened his eyes and made no motion, although he was perfectly certain that there was someone in the room. He continued to breathe with audible regularity, but eyes and ears were tensely on the alert. For several minutes the ticking of the little bedside clock was the chief sound in the room. But the Goat knew what was happening. The intruder had clumsily made some sound and was now waiting, motionless, until he could be sure that the sleeper had not roused.

  Presently there was a faint click and the darkness of the room became less intense. The Goat instantly shut his eyes, and the next second felt a beam of light searching his face. Then it was gone, and he felt rather than heard a stealthy footfall.

  Slowly, with deliberate caution lest the rustling of the bedclothes should attract attention, he began to turn over so that he should face the burglar. He was not at all alarmed, but he was curious. There were several friends of his—business friends—who were quite capable of deeming him worth a professional visit. It had not been unknown for a thief to recover in the night the stolen goods he had sold in the morning.

  He could see dimly a black formless figure moving stealthily about the apartment and the pencil of light from the electric torch darting searchingly over the various articles in the room.

  The Goat raised himself on one elbow. His visitor’s back was towards him, and in the farther corner of the room were half a dozen walking sticks. Many a time in his younger days had the Goat’s liberty depended upon his soft-footedness, and his old cunning had not yet deserted him. He lowered his feet gently until they touched the carpet, and noiselessly and swiftly crossed the room.

  He had reached the corner and his hand encircled a malacca cane when the beam of light suddenly wheeled round. Instinct seemed to have warned Big Rufe of his danger. The Goat blinked his eyes as the circle of light blinded him, and then found himself looking down the barrel of a heavy automatic.

  ‘Keep your yap shut or you’ll get it,’ said the steady voice of Rufe.

  It was then that O’Brien recognised him. He did not venture to move, but he gave a thin, harsh cackle of laughter.

  ‘Hello! You come to collect that shilling? Say, son, I’d sooner have you as a con man than a burglar out of the funny papers. Take my advice and give up being a crook. It will pay you better to open cab doors for a living.’

  ‘Shut it,’ ordered Rufe peremptorily. ‘You know what I want. Where d’you keep the stuff? Come on. Cough it up or it’ll be the worse for you.’

  ‘You’re surely some tough,’ taunted the Goat. His grip on the stick shifted and tightened. ‘Gosh, but you’ve nearly got me frightened. Who trusted you with a great big gun like that? Do you know what would happen to you if it went off while you’re pointing it at me? You would be hanged by the neck until you were dead, and your mummy would have to buy nice new black clothes for you.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ growled Rufe. ‘I don’t want to be hard with an old man like you.’ The pistol muzzle dropped. There were men who could have told Rufe that the only time the Goat could be considered safe was while one had him at the end of a gun. But this knowledge he had yet to acquire.

  A man more astute might realise that the Goat’s gibes were intended to distract attention. In fact he was only waiting for that pistol muzzle to drop.

  Rufe understood too late. The Goat lunged with the stick as a fencer with a sword, and the other doubled up like a clasp-knife as the ferrule caught him on what the doctors call the solar plexus and boxers the bread-basket. Even while he was gasping the cane swished again through the air twice in rapid succession. He dropped clumsily forward and lay still.

  O’Brien switched on the light and, replacing the stick, opened the door and listened. Presently he went a little way along the corridor, tapped at another door, and pushed it open.

  ‘George!’ he called softly. ‘George, come here!’

  A sleepy grunt answered him, and a moment later a middle-aged man with immature side-whiskers had leapt out of bed. He was chauffeur valet to O’Brien as far as the outside world was concerned. He was also general assistant in a variety of affairs of which the public knew nothing.

  He followed O’Brien back to his own room, and his employer jerked his head to the prostrate figure.

  ‘Woke up to find that tough here. Had to lay him out,’ he said succinctly.

  George expressed no surprise. He went to the unconscious man and rolled him over. ‘Hit him precious hard, didn’t you?’ he commented, noting the bruise on the temple.

  ‘He had a gun on me. Not croaked, is he?’

  George turned a serious face upwards. He was holding Rufe’s pulse. ‘He seems mighty bad. What do you reckon we’d better do? Shall I phone for the doctor?’

  ‘Don’t be a blamed fool,’ said the Goat with asperity. ‘That’d mean giving the bulls a chance to come in and out here all the time they were hanging up a case against him. Go and get some clothes on. We’ll dump him out in the street and trust to luck.’

  ‘There’s the night porter,’ remonstrated George.

  ‘I know all about that. You go and get dressed.’

  The Goat himself hurriedly flung on some clothes and reconnoitred down the stairs. He found the night porter breathing stertorously in a corner of the little partitioned-off office, and nodded sagely. He knew now all the steps that Rufe had taken, and he understood how he had got possession of the master-key which afforded him entrance to the flat. He returned upstairs.

  With jerky reluctance the tape machine rattled out a message, and Divisional Detective-Inspector Almack, who had lingered on his way upstairs to his own office to chaff the sub-divisional, idly tore off the message and glanced at it.

  ‘In consequence of an outbreak of swine-fever at Cheam the Board of Agriculture have prohibited … Hello, what’s this?’ His eye had fallen to a later message.

  There is a constant interchange of police news day and night between the
ten-score police stations of London—by telephone, by motor, by official newspapers, and by the tape machine. It may not seem essential that a constable at Ewell should know that a burglary has been committed at Bayswater—but the burglar may live at Ewell. News—swift news—is the life-blood of the greatest police organisation in the world, even as it was in the old days of hue and cry.

  Almack twisted his reddish moustache absently and, passing the strip of tape abruptly to the sub-divisional inspector, strode off to his own department. One of his sergeants, a broad, ruddy-faced man, was sprawling against the mantelpiece, and a clerk was writing beneath the barred window.

  ‘Mornin’, Horand,’ said Almack. ‘I’ve just got a hunch that we may get a line on the Goat after all.’

  ‘Huh,’ commented Horand, and spat in the fire. He was a veteran of the old days who had never troubled to attempt the further examinations preliminary to higher promotion, and was a pessimist in certain ways. He had known many campaigns against the Goat, and he had small faith that the young ‘D.D.-I.’ could achieve anything. Still, discipline is discipline, and he said nothing.

  ‘We’ll get right over to Regent’s Park again,’ went on Almack. ‘There’s a report just come through on the tape that’s put me thinking. Ever run across Big Rufe Devlin?’

  ‘I have so,’ admitted Horand, struggling with his overcoat.

  ‘They’ve picked him up outside High Cliff Mansions—that’s the Goat’s place—badly knocked about. He’s in the infirmary now, and he won’t say who put it across him.’

  Horand stared at his chief with something of contempt. ‘There don’t seem much to that to drag us right across London. I know Rufe and I know the Goat. They’d no more have anything to do with each other than—than a banker with a confectioner’s assistant.’

  Almack had a respect for his senior assistant, but he sometimes wished that his common sense was not so arrogant. It blunted enthusiasm. ‘All the same, it’s deuced funny that he should be picked up practically on the Goat’s doorstep. It needs looking into, anyway. A bit of fresh air will do you good.’