by Fergus Hume
“There is no more to tell,” whimpered Bolker, his teeth chattering. “Monkey couldn’t get the mandarin, ‘cause he had not the ticket. He made friends with me, and asked me to steal it. I wouldn’t, until he told me why he wanted it. Then he said that you had stolen twenty thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds from Lady Deacey’s house in Curzon Street, and had hidden them in the mandarin. He said we’d go whacks if I’d steal them for him. I couldn’t get the mandarin, as Hagar’s so sharp she would have missed it, and put me in jail for stealing it; so I opened the doll, and took out the diamonds which were in a leather bag.”
“Moy bag, moy dimins!” said Bill, savagely. “What did y’ do with ‘em?”
“I gave them to Monkey, and he cleared out with them. He never gave me a single one; and I don’t know where to find him.”
“I does,” growled Mr. Smith, releasing Bolker, “an’ I’ll fin’ ‘im and slit his bloomin’ throat. ‘Ere! I say, y’ come back!” for, taking advantage of his release, Bolker was racing up the wharf.
Bill gave chase, as he wanted to obtain further information from the lad; but Bolker knew the neighborhood better than the burglar, and soon eluded him in the winding alleys.
“It don’t matter!” said Bill, giving up the chase and wiping his brow. “Monkey’s got the swag. Might ha’ guessed as he’d round on me. I’ll jest see ‘im and Liz, and if I don’t make ‘m paiy fur this, maiy I ——!” Then he clinched his resolve with an oath, which it is unnecessary to repeat here. After relieving his feelings thus, he went in search of his perfidious friend, with murderous thoughts in his heart.
At first he thought that it would be difficult to find Monkey. No doubt the man on obtaining the diamonds had gone off to America, North or South, so as to escape the vengeance of his pal—Bill had always been Monkey’s pal—and to live comfortably on the fruits of his villainy. Later on the burglar learnt, rather to his surprise, that Monkey was still in London, and still was haunting the thieves’ quarter in Whitechapel. Bill wondered at this choice of a residence when the man had so much money in his possession; but he ascribed this longing to Monkey’s love for his old haunts and associates. Nevertheless, knowing that Bill was out of prison, it was strange that the man did not look after his skin.
“‘E knows wot I am when I’m riz!” said Bill to himself, as he continued his search, “so he ought to get orf while ‘is throat ain’t cut! Blimme; but I’ll ‘ave a drop of ‘is ‘eart’s blood fur every one of them bloomin’ dimins!”
One evening he found Monkey in the parlor of a low public-house called the Three Kings, and kept by a Jew of ill-fame, who was rather a fence than a landlord.
His traitorous friend, more wizened and shriveled up than ever, was seated in a dark corner, with an unlighted pipe in his mouth, a half-drained tankard of bitter before him, and his hands thrust moodily into his pockets. If Monkey had the diamonds, his appearance belied their possession, for he looked anything but prosperous. There was no appearance of wealth in his looks or manner or choice of abode.
“Wot, Bill, ole pal!” he said, looking up when Mr. Smith hurled himself into the room. “Y’ve got h’out of quod!”
“Yus! I’ve got trout to slit yer throat!”
“Lor!” whined Monkey, uncomfortably. “Wot’s you accusin’ me fur? I ain’t done nuffin’, s’elp me!”
Bill drew a chair before that of Monkey, and taking out his knife played with it in a significant manner. Monkey shrank back before the glitter of the blade and the ugly look in his pal’s eyes, but he did not dare to cry out for assistance, lest the burglar should pounce on him.
“Now, look ‘ee ‘ere, Monkey,” said Bill, with grim deliberation, “I don’t want none of yer bloomin’ lip, ner his eiather! D’ y’ see? I’ve seen that beast of a kid as you put up to steal my dimins, and ——”
“Yah! that kid!” cried Monkey, with sudden ferocity. “Wish I’d ‘im ‘ere; I’d squeeze the ‘eart out o’ him!”
“Wot fur? Didn’t ‘e git y’ the swag—moy swag—cuss y’?”
“No, ‘e didn’t; an’ ef ‘e ses ‘e did, ‘e’s a liar—a bloomin’ busted liar, s’elp me! I tell you, Bill, ‘e kep’ them shiners to ‘imself, cuss ‘im!”
“Thet’s a d——d lie, y’ sneakin’ dorg!” said Bill, politely.
“M’ I die if ‘tain’t gorspel truth!” yelped Monkey. “Look ‘ee ‘ere, ole pal ——”
“Don’t y’ call me pal!” interrupted Bill, savagely. “I ain’t no pal of yourn, y’ terbaccer-faiced son of a bloomin’ ‘angman! Liz blew the gaff on me poppin’ that himage, and y’ tried to git m’ swag when I was doin’ time. An’ y’ did get it, y’ ——!”
“I didn’t!” snapped Monkey, interrupting in his turn. “The kid stuck to the swag, I tell y’. ‘Course I knowed of them dimins!”
“‘Course y’ did!” growled William, ironically. “Didn’t I tell y’ ‘ow I cracked that crib in Curzon Street, an’ prigged th’ dimins an’ th’ himage? Yah! y’ cuss!”
“I knows y’ did, Bill. An’ you tole me ‘ow y’ stowed the swag inside the doll. My heye! that was sharp of y’; but y’ moight ‘ev trusted a pal! I didn’t know y’ popped the doll till Liz told me. She sawr y’ goin’ in t’ that popshorp with the Chiner thing under yer arm; an’ ——”
“And you’d set ‘er arter me!” cried Bill! savagely. “She didn’t git int’ Lambeth on the chance!”
“Yus,” said Monkey, doggedly, “I did put ‘er on yer trail. Y’ hid the dimins in that image, and cleared out with it. I couldn’t foller meself, so I set Liz ont’ ye. She tole me as ‘ow y’d popped th’ thing; so when y’ wos doin’ time I tried to git it again, tho’ that young cuss ‘es sold me.”
“Blimme! but I’ve a moind to slit yer throat!” said Bill, furiously. “Wot d’ y’ mean tryin’ to coller my swag?”
“Why, fur yer own sake, Bill, s’elp me. I thort the gal might fin’ out. But y’ needn’t git up, Bill; I didn’t git them dimins. The boy hes them.”
“That’s a lie. I tell y’!”
“‘Tain’t! When I tole the kid about the dimins he stole ‘em sure, an’ lef’ th’ doll so es the pawn-shop gal wouldn’t fin’ out. But I never saw ‘im agin, though I watched the shorp like a bloomin’ tyke. The boy cleared out with them dimins. I wish I’d ‘im ‘ere! I’d choke the little d—l!”
Bill reflected, and slipped the knife into his pocket. Without doubt Monkey was speaking the truth; he was too savagely in earnest to be telling a falsehood. Moreover, if he really possessed the diamonds, he would not remain hard up and miserable in the thieves’ quarter of dingy Whitechapel. No; Bolker had kept the jewels, and had deceived Monkey; more than that, in the interview on the ruined wharf he had deceived Bill himself. Priding himself on his astuteness, Mr. Smith felt savage at having been sold by a mere boy.
“If I kin on’y git ‘im agin!” he thought, when leaving the Three Kings, “I’ll take the ‘ead orf ‘m, and chuck ‘is crooked karkuss int’ the river mud!”
But he found it difficult to lay hands on Bolker, although for more than a week he haunted the shop in Leicester Square. Warned by his one experience that Bill was a dangerous person to meddle with, Bolker had given notice to his employers, and at present was in hiding. Also, he was arranging a little scheme whereby to rid himself of Larky Bill’s inopportunities. Vark was the man who undertook to carry out the details of the scheme; and Hagar was consulted also with regard to its completion. These three people, Vark, Hagar, and Bolker, laid an ingenious trap for unsuspecting Bill, into which he walked without a thought of danger. He had been betrayed by Monkey, by Bolker, by Liz; now he was going to be sold by Vark, the lawyer. Truly, the fates were against Bill at this juncture.
Vark was a thieves’ lawyer, and had something in him of a latter-day Fagin; for he not only made use of criminals when he could do so with safety, but also he sold them to justice when they became dangerous. As he saw a chance of making money out of Bill Smith, he reso
lved to do so, and sent for the man to visit him at once. As Vark had often done business with the burglar, Bill had no idea that it was in the lawyer’s mind to betray him, and duly presented himself at the spider’s office in Lambeth, like a silly fly. The first thing he saw on entering the room was the mandarin swaying on the table.
“You are astonished to see that,” said Vark, noticing his surprise. “I daresay; but you see, Bill, I know all about your theft of the Deacey diamonds.”
“Who tole you?” growled Bill, throwing himself into a chair.
“Hagar of the Pawn-shop,” replied Vark, slowly and with significance.
Bill’s eyes lighted up fiercely, in precisely the way Vark wished. The lawyer had not forgiven Hagar for refusing to marry him, and for curtailing his pickings in the Dix estate. For these reasons he wished her evil; and if he could inoculate the burglar’s heart with a spite towards her he was bent on doing so. It appeared from Bill’s next speech that he had succeeded.
“Oh, ‘twas that gal, wos it?” said Mr. Smith, quietly. “I might ha’ guessed it, by seein’ that himage. Well, I owe ‘er one, I do, and I guess I’ll owe ‘er another. But that’s my biz; ‘tain’t yourn. Wot d’ye want, y’ measly dorg?” he added, looking at the lean form of Vark in a surly manner.
“I want to see you about the Deacey diamonds. Why did you not bring them to me when you stole them?”
“Whoy? ‘Cause I didn’t b’lieve in ye!” retorted Bill. “I know’d I wos in fur toime when I prigged them apples, an’ I wasn’t going to trust my swag to y’ or Monkey. Y’d ha’ sold me.”
“Well, Monkey did sell you.”
“Yah! ‘e didn’t get much on th’ deal!”
“No; but Bolker did.”
“Bolker!” echoed Bill, grinding his teeth: “d’ y’ know that crooked cuss? Y’ do! Well, see ‘ere!”—Bill drew his clasp-knife out of his pocket and opened it—“I’m goin’ to slip that int’ ‘im fust toime as I claps eyes on ‘is ugly mug!”
“You’d better not, unless you want to be hanged.”
“Wot d’ I care?” growled Bill, sulkily; “scragged, or time with skilly an’ hoakum. It’s all th’ saime t’ me.”
“I suppose you wonder where the diamonds are?”
“Yus. I want ‘em!”
“That’s a pity,” said Vark, with irony—“because I am afraid you won’t get them.”
“Where is them dimins?” asked Bill, laying his open knife on the table.
Vark passed over the question. “I suppose you know that the police are after you for the Deacey robbery?” he said, slipping his hand idly across the table till it was within reach of the knife. “Oh, yes; Lord Deacey offered a reward for the recovery of the jewels. That has been paid, but as you are still at large, the police want you, my friend!”
“Oh, I ain’t afraid of y’ givin’ me up; I’m too useful t’y’, I am, and I knows too much about y’. The pealers shawn’t put me in quod this toime. Who got the reward?” he asked suddenly.
“Bolker got it.”
“D——n him! Bolker!”
“Yes. Monkey made a mistake when he trusted the lad. Bolker thought that he would make more out of honesty than by going shares with Monkey. When he found the jewels, he went off with them to Scotland Yard. Lady Deacey has them now, and Bolkers,” added Vark, smiling, “has money in the bank.”
“Cuss ‘im; whoy didn’t I cut ‘is bloomin’ throat down by the river?”
“That is best known to yourself,” replied Vark, who was now playing with the knife. “You are in a tight place, my friend, and may get some years for this robbery.”
“Yah! No one knows I did it!”
“There is the evidence against you,” said Vark, pointing to the mandarin. “You stole that out of Lord Deacey’s drawing-room along with the diamonds. You pawned it, and Hagar can swear that you did so. Bolker can swear that the stolen diamonds were inside. With these two witnesses, my poor Bill, I’m afraid you’d get six years or more!”
“Not me!” said Bill, rising. “Y’ won’t give me up; and I ain’t feared of any one else.”
“Why not? There is a reward offered for your apprehension.”
“What d’ I care?” Who’ll git it?”
“I will!” replied Vark, coolly, rising.
“You?” Bill recoiled for a moment, and sprang forward. “Cuss you! Y’d sell me, y’ shark! Gimme my knife!”
“Not such a fool, Mr. Smith!”
Vark threw the knife into a distant corner of the room, and leveled a revolver at the bullet head of the advancing burglar. Bill fell back for the moment—fell into the arms of two policemen.
He gave a roar like a wild beast.
“Trapped, by ——!” he yelled, and struggled to get free.
The next moment Hagar and Bolker were in the room, and Bill glared at one and the other.
“Y’ trapped me, d——n y’!” said he; “wait till I git out!”
“You’ll kill me, I suppose?” said Hagar, scornfully.
“No; shawn’t kill you, nor yet that little d——l with th’ ‘unch. There’s on’y one cove as I’d swing for—that beastly thief of a lawyer!”
Vark recoiled before the glare in the man’s eyes; and as Bill, foaming and cursing, was hurried out of the room, he looked at Hagar with a nervous smile.
“That’s bluff,” he said, feebly.
“I don’t think so,” replied Hagar, quietly.
“Good-by, Mr. Vark. I’m afraid you won’t live more than seven years; there will be a funeral about the time of Larkey Bill’s release.”
When she went out, Bolker grinned at the lawyer and, with frightful pantomime, he drew a stroke across his neck. Vark looked at the clasp knife in the corner and shivered. The mandarin on the table rolled and smiled always.
CHAPTER IX. THE EIGHTH CUSTOMER AND THE PAIR OF BOOTS.
HE was a very little lad, reaching scarcely to the top of the counter; but he had a sharp, keen face, intelligent beyond his years with the precocity taught by poverty. Hagar, looking at his shock of red hair, and the shrewd blue eyes which peered up at her face, guessed that he was Irish; and when he spoke, his brogue proved her guess to be a correct one. She stared at the ragged, bare-footed urchin with some amusement, for this was the smallest customer she had yet had. But Micky—so he gave his name—was quite as sharp as customers of more mature years—1n fact, sharper. He bargained astutely with Hagar, and evidently had made up his small mind not to leave the shop until he obtained his own price for the article he was pawning. This was a pair of strong laborer’s boots, hob-nailed and stout in the soles. The red-haired boy heaved them on to the counter with a mighty clatter, and demanded seven shillings thereon.
“I’ll give you five,” said Hagar, after examination.
“Ah, now, would ye?” piped the brat, with shrill impudence. “Is it taking the bread out av me mouth ye w’uld be afther? Sure, me mother sid sivin bob, an’ ‘tis sivin I want.”
“Where is your mother, boy? Why did she not come herself?”
“Mother’s comforting herself wid the drink round the carner; an’ sure I’m aqual to gittin’ th’ dirthy money meself! Sivin bob, alannah, ant may the hivins be yer bed!”
“Where did you get these boots?” said Hagar, asking another question, and ignoring the persuasive tone of the lad. “I see there are letters marked in nails on the two soles.”
“Ah! there moight be,” assented Micky, complacently; “there’s a ‘G’ on one foot, an’ a ‘K’ on the other; but me fawther’s name is Patrick Dooley, an’ he’s in Amerikey, worse luck. Mother got thim boots foive days gone in the counthry. They wos a prisint, me darlin’; an’ as they wos too big fur me an’ me mother, we pop them, dear, fur sivin bob.”
“Take six,” said Hagar, persuasively; “they aren’t worth more.”
“Howly saints! listen to the lies av her! ” shrieked Micky. “Six, is it? An’ how can I go to me mother wid a shillin’ wrong? Sure, it’s breaki
n’ me hid she’d be afther, wid a quart pot! An’ what’s money to the loikes av you, me dear?”
“Here—here! take the seven shillings!” said Hagar, anxious to rid herself of this shrieking imp. “I’ll make out the ticket in the name of Mrs. Dooley”
“Mrs. Bridget Dooley, av Park Lane,” said Micky, grandly. ” Sure that will do as well as any other place. It’s on the tramp we are—bad luck to it! If ‘twasn’t for thim boots we got in Marlow, it’s without a copper we’d be.”
“Here! take the ticket and money. I daresay you stole the boots.”
“Is it takin’ away me characther y’d be afther? Stalin’? Wasn’t thim boots a prisint to me, for pure charity an’ love av the saints? Ah, well, I’m goin’—I’m goin’! Sivin bob; it’s little enough onyhow; but phwat’s the use of lookin’ for justice to Oireland in the counthry av the Saxon toyrant?” and Micky went out, singing “The Wearing of the Green” in a very shrill and unpleasant voice.
Hagar put the boots away, never expecting that a story could be attached to so ordinary a pawned article. But two days afterwards she was reading an account of a murder, and, to her surprise, the very boots, now reposing on a high shelf in her shop, were mentioned as a link in the chain of evidence likely to hang the assassin. Coincidences occur in real life oftener than the world cares to admit; and this was a case in point. A pair of boots with initials on the soles had been pawned in her shop; and now—scarcely forty-eight hours afterwards— she was reading about them in a newspaper. It was strange—almost incredible; but, to quote a trite and well-worn saying, “Truth is stranger than fiction.” Briefly, the history of the crime was as follows:
Sir Leslie Crane, of Welby Park, Marlow, had been shot by his gamekeeper, George Kerris. It seemed that the man was engaged to marry a farmer’s daughter, Laura Brenton by name; and Sir Leslie had been paying the girl more attention than was consistent with their respective positions. Kerris had remonstrated with the baronet, who had forthwith discharged him. A week later, Crane, having gone out after dinner for a stroll in the park, had been found dead by a pond known as the Queen’s Pool, which was some little distance from the gates. Footmarks had been discovered in the soft mud near the water, which showed that the assassin had worn boots marked on the soles with the letters “G” and “K.” These had been traced, through a Marlow bootmaker, to George Kerris The man had been arrested, but neither denied his guilt nor affirmed his innocence. Still, as the report said, there could be no doubt that he had killed Sir Leslie in a fit of jealous rage, and also because he had been discharged. The boots could not be found, so undoubtedly the man had got rid of them after wearing them on the night of the murder. The report in the paper concluded by stating that the dead baronet was succeeded by his cousin, now Sir Lewis Crane.