“He said there was never any skipper so partic’ler about the boats an’ davits bein’ kep’ in order as Beecher was that trip,” Mr. Cripps proceeded. “An’ he kep’ his own life-belt wonderful handy. As for the crew, they kep’ their kit-bags packed all the time; they could see enough for that. An’ he said there was some as could say more’n he could.”
We came in view of the Hole in the Wall, and Mr. Cripps stopped short. “He don’t know I’m tellin’ you this,” he said. “He came in the skipper’s room with a drink, an’ got talkin’ confidential. He’s very close about it. You know what sailors are.”
Grandfather Nat frowned, and nodded. Indeed nobody knew better the common sailor-man’s horror of complications and “land-shark” troubles ashore: of anything that might lead to his being asked for responsible evidence, even for his own protection. It gave impunity to three-quarters of the iniquity practised on the high seas.
“An’ then o’ course he’s a deserter,” Mr. Cripps proceeded. “So I don’t think you’d better say I told you cap’en — not to him. You can give information — or I can — an’ then they’ll make him talk, at the Old Bailey; an’ they’ll bring others.”
Grandfather Nat winced, and turned away. Then he stopped again and said angrily: “Damn you, don’t meddle! Keep your mouth shut, an’ don’t meddle.”
Mr. Cripps’s jaw dropped, and his very nose paled. “But — but—” he stammered, “but, Cap’en, it’s murder! Murder agin Beecher an’ Viney too! You’ll do something, when it’s your own son! Your own son. An’ it’s murder, Cap’en!”
My grandfather went two steps on his way, with a stifled groan. “Murder!” he muttered, “murder it is, by the law of England!”
Mr. Cripps came at his heels, very blank in the face. Suddenly my grandfather turned on him again, pale and fierce. “Shut your mouth, d’ye hear? Stow your slack jaw, an’ mind your own business, or I’ll—”
Grandfather Nat lifted his hand; and I believe nothing but a paralysis of terror kept Mr. Cripps from a bolt. Several people stopped to stare, and the old man saw it. So he checked his wrath and walked on.
“I’ll see that man,” he said presently, flinging the words at Mr. Cripps over his shoulder. And so we reached the Hole in the Wall.
Mr. Cripps sat speechless in the bar and trembled, while Grandfather Nat remained for an hour in the skipper’s parlour with Conolly the half-drunken. What they said one to another I never learned, nor even if my grandfather persuaded the man to tell him anything; though there can be no doubt he did.
For myself, I moved uneasily about the bar-parlour, and presently I slipped out into the alley to gaze at the river from the stair-head. I was troubled vaguely, as a child often is who strives to analyse the behaviour of his elders. I stared some while at the barges and the tugs, and at Bill Stagg’s boat with its cage of fire, as it went in and about among the shipping; I looked at the bills on the wall, where new tales of men and women Found Drowned displaced those of a week ago; and I fell again into the wonderment and conjecture they always prompted; and last I turned up the alley, though whether to look out on the street or to stop at the bar-parlour door, I had not determined.
As I went, I grew aware of a tall, florid man with thick boots and very large whiskers, who stood at the entry, and regarded me with a wide and ingratiating smile. I had some cloudy remembrance of having seen him before, walking in the street of Wapping Wall; and, as he seemed to be coming to meet me, I went on past the bar-parlour door to meet him.
“Ah!” he said with a slight glance toward the door, “you’re a smart fellow, I can see.” And he patted my head and stopped. “Now I’ve got something to show you. See there!”
He pulled a watch from his pocket and opened it. I was much interested to see that the inward part swung clear out from the case, on a hinge, exactly as I had seen happen with another watch on my first evening at the Hole in the Wall. “That’s a rum trick, ain’t it?” observed the stranger, smiling wider than ever.
I assented, and thanked him for the demonstration.
“Ah,” he replied, “you’re as clever a lad as ever I see; but I lay you never see a watch like that before?”
“Yes, I did,” I answered heartily. “I saw one once.”
“No, no,” said the florid man, still toying with the watch, “I don’t believe that — it’s your gammon. Why, where did you see one?”
He shot another stealthy glance toward the bar-parlour door as he said it, and the glance was so unlike the smile that my sleeping caution was alarmed. I remembered how my grandfather had come by the watch with the M on the back; and I remember his repeated warnings that I must not talk.
“ — Why, where did you see one?” asked the stranger.
“In a man’s hand,” I said, with stolid truth.
He looked at me so sharply through his grin that I had an uncomfortable feeling that I had somehow let out the secret after all. But I resolved to hold on tight.
“Ha! ha!” he laughed, “in a man’s hand, of course! I knew you was a smart one. Mine hasn’t got any letter on the back, you see.”
“No,” I answered with elaborate indifference; “no letter.” And as I spoke I found more matter of surprise. For if I had eyes in my head — and indeed I had sharp ones — there was Mrs. Grimes in a dark entry across the street, watching this grinning questioner and me.
“Some have letters on the back,” said the questioner. “Mine ain’t that sort. What sort—”
Here Joe the potman dropped, or knocked over, something in the bar-parlour; and the stranger started.
“I think I’m wanted indoors,” I said, moving off, glad of the interruption. “Good-bye!”
The florid stranger rose and walked off at once, with a parting smile. He turned at the corner, and went straight away, without so much as a look toward the entry where Mrs. Grimes was. I fancied he walked rather like a policeman.
XXVII. — IN THE BAR-PARLOUR
DAN OGLE, blinded and broken, but silent and saving his revenge: Musky Mag, stricken and pitiable, but faithful even if to death: Henry Viney, desperate but fearful, and urgently needy: these three skulked at bay in dark holes by Blue Gate.
Sullen and silent to doggedness, Ogle would give no word to the hospital doctors of how his injury had befallen; and in three days he would brook confinement no longer, but rose and broke away, defiant of persuasion, to grope into the outer world by aid of Mag’s arm. Blind George was about still, but had scarcely been near the Highway except at night, when, as he had been wont to boast, he was as good as most men with sound eyes. It was thought that he spent his days over the water, as would be the way of one feeling the need of temporary caution. It did not matter: that could rest a bit. Blind George should be paid, and paid bitter measure; but first the job in hand, first the scheme he had interrupted; first the money.
Here were doubt and difficulty. Dan Ogle’s plan of murder and comprehensive pillage was gone by the board; he was next to helpless. It was plain that, whatever plan was followed, Viney must bear the active part; Dan Ogle raved and cursed to find his partner so unpractised a ruffian, so cautious and doubtful a confederate.
Mrs. Grimes made the matter harder, and it was plain that the thing must be either brought to a head or wholly abandoned, if only on her account. For she had her own idea, with her certain revenge on Captain Nat, and a contingent reward; furthermore, she saw her brother useless. And things were brought to a head when she would wait no more, but carried her intrigue to the police.
Nothing but a sudden move would do now, desperate as it might be; and the fact screwed Viney to the sticking-place, and gave new vigour to Ogle’s shaken frame. After all, the delay had not been great — no more than a few days. Captain Nat suspected nothing, and the chances lay that the notes were still in hand, as they had been when Ogle’s sister last saw them; for he could afford to hold them, and dispose of them at a later and safer time. The one danger was from this manoeuvre of Mrs. Grimes: if the po
lice thought well enough of her tale to act without preliminary inquiry, they might be at the Hole in the Wall with a search-warrant at any moment. The thing must be done at once — that very night.
Musky Mag had never left Dan’s side a moment since she had brought him from the hospital; now she was thrust aside, and bidden to keep to herself. Viney took to pen, ink and paper; and the two men waited impatiently for midnight.
It was then that Viney, with Ogle at his elbow, awaited the closing of the Hole in the Wall, hidden in the dark entry, whence Mrs. Grimes had watched the plain-clothes policeman fishing for information a few hours earlier. The customers grew noisier as the hour neared; and Captain Nat’s voice was heard enjoining order once or twice, ere at last it was raised to clear the bar. Then the company came out, straggling and staggering, wrangling and singing, and melted away into the dark, this way and that. Mr. Cripps went east, the pale pensioner west, each like a man who has all night to get home in; and the potman, having fastened the shutters, took his coat and hat, and went his way also.
There was but one other tavern in sight, and that closed at the same time as the Hole in the Wall; and since none nearer than Paddy’s Goose remained open till one, Wapping Wall was soon dark and empty. There were diamond-shaped holes near the top of the shutters at the Hole in the Wall, and light was visible through these: a sign that Captain Nat was still engaged in the bar. Presently the light dulled, and then disappeared: he had extinguished the lamps. Now was the time — while he was in the bar-parlour. Viney came out from the entry, pulling Ogle by the arm, and crossed the street. He brought him to the court entrance, and placed his hand on the end post.
“This is the first post in the court,” Viney whispered. “Wait here while I go. We both know what’s to do.”
Viney tip-toed to the bar-parlour door, and tapped. There was a heavy footstep within, and the door was flung open. There stood Captain Nat with the table-lamp in his hand. “Who’s that?” said Captain Nat. “Come into the light.”
Viney took a deep breath. “Me,” he answered. “I’ll come in; I’ve got something to say.”
He went in side-foremost, with his back against the door-post, and Captain Nat turned slowly, each man watching the other. Then the landlord put the lamp on the table, and shut the door. “Well,” he said, “I’ll hear you say it.”
There was something odd about Captain Nat’s eyes: something new, and something that Viney did not like. Hard and quiet; not anger, it would seem, but something indefinable — and worse. Viney braced himself with another inspiration of breath.
“First,” he said, “I’m alone here, but I’ve left word. There’s a friend o’ mine not far off, waiting. He’s waiting where he can hear the clock strike on Shadwell Church, just as you can hear it here; an’ if I’m not back with him, safe an’ sound, when it strikes one, he’s going to the police with some papers I’ve given him, in an envelope.”
“Ah! An’ what papers?”
“Papers I’ve written myself. Papers with a sort of private log in them — not much like the one they showed ‘em at Lloyd’s — of the loss of the Florence years enough ago, when a man named Dan Webb was killed. Papers with the names of most of the men aboard, an’ hints as to where to find of ‘em: Bill Stagg, for instance, A.B. They may not want to talk, but they can be made.”
Captain Nat’s fixed look was oddly impassive. “Have you got it on the papers,” he said, in a curiously even voice, as though he recited a lesson learned by rote; “have you got it on the papers that Dan Webb had got at the rum, an’ was lost through bein’ drunk?”
“No, I haven’t; an’ much good it ‘ud do ye if I had. Drunk or sober he died in that wreck, an’ not a man aboard but knew all about that. I’ve told you, before, what it is by law: Murder. Murder an’ the Rope.”
“Ay,” said Captain Nat in the same even voice, though the tones grew in significance as he went on. “Ay, you have; an’ you made me pay for the information. Murder it is, an’ the Rope, by the law of England.”
“Well, I want none of your money now; I want my own. I’ll go back an’ burn those papers — or give ‘em to you, if you like — an’ you’ll never see me again, if you’ll do one thing — not with your money.”
“What?”
“Give me my partner’s leather pocket-book and my eight hundred and ten pounds that was in it. That’s first an’ last of my business here to-night, an’ all I’ve got to say.”
For a moment Captain Nat’s impassibility was disturbed, and he looked sharply at Viney. “Ha!” he said, “what’s this? Partner’s pocket-book? Notes? What?”
“I’ve said it plain, an’ you understand me. Time’s passing, Cap’en Kemp, an’ you’d better not waste it arguing; one o’clock’ll strike before long. The money I came an’ spoke about when they found Marr in the river; you had it all the time, an’ you knew it. That’s what I want: nothing o’ yours, but my own money. Give me my own money, an’ save your neck.”
Captain Nat compressed his lips, and folded his arms. “There was a woman knew about this,” he said slowly, after a pause, “a woman an’ a man. They each took a try at that money, in different ways. They must be friends o’ yours.”
“Time’s going, Cap’en Kemp, time’s going! Listen to reason, an’ give me what’s my own. I want nothing o’ yours; nothing but my own. To save you; and — and that boy. You’ve got a boy to remember: think o’ the boy!”
Captain Nat stood for a little, silent and thoughtful, his eyes directed absently on Viney, as though he saw him not; and as he stood so the darkness cleared from his face. Not that moment’s darkness only, but all the hardness of years seemed to abate in the old skipper’s features, so that presently Captain Nat stood transfigured.
“Ay,” he said at last, “the boy — I’ll think o’ the boy, God bless him! You shall have your money, Viney: though whether it ought to be yours I don’t know. Viney, when you came in I was ready to break you in pieces with my bare hands — which I could do easy, as you know well enough.” He stretched forth the great knotted hands, and Viney shrank before them. “I was ready to kill you with my hands, an’ would ha’ done it, for a reason I’ll tell you of, afterwards. But I’ve done evil enough, an’ I’ll do no more. You shall have your money. Wait here, an’ I’ll fetch it.”
“Now, no — no tricks, you know!” said Viney, a little nervously, as the old man turned toward the staircase door.
“Tricks?” came the answer. “No. An end of all tricks.” And Captain Nat tramped heavily up the stair.
XXVIII. — STEPHEN’S TALE
MY grandfather was uncommonly silent all that day, after his interview with Conolly. He bade me good night when I went to bed, and kissed me; but he said no more, though he sat by my bed till I fell asleep, while Joe attended the bar.
I had a way, now and again, of waking when the bar was closed — perhaps because of the noise; and commonly at these times I lay awake till Grandfather Nat came to bed, to bid him good night once more. It was so this night, the night of nights. I woke at the shouting and the stumbling into the street, and lay while the bar was cleared, and the doors banged and fastened.
My grandfather seemed to stay uncommonly long; and presently, as the night grew stiller, I was aware of voices joined in conversation below. I wondered greatly who could be talking with Grandfather Nat at this hour, and I got out of bed to listen at the stair-head. It could not be Bill Stagg, for the voices were in the bar-parlour, and not in the store-place behind; and it was not Joe the potman, for I had heard him go, and I knew his step well. I wondered if Grandfather Nat would mind if I went down to see.
I was doubtful, and I temporised; I began to put on some clothes, listening from time to time at the stair-head, in hope that I might recognise the other voice. But indeed both voices were indistinct, and I could not distinguish one from the other. And then of a sudden the stair-foot door opened, and my grandfather came upstairs, heavy and slow.
I doubted what he might say wh
en he saw my clothes on, but he seemed not to notice it. He brought a candle in from the landing, and he looked strangely grave — grave with a curious composure. He went to the little wall-cupboard at his bed-head, and took out the cash-box, which had not been downstairs since the pale man had ceased work. “Stevy, my boy,” he said, “have you said your prayers?”
“Yes, grandfather.”
“An’ didn’t forget Gran’father Nat?”
“No, grandfather, I never forget you.”
“Good boy, Stevy.” He took the leather pocket-book from the box, and knelt by my side, with his arm about me. “Stevy,” he said, “here’s this money. It ain’t ours, Stevy, neither yours nor mine, an’ we’ve no right to it. I kept it for you, but I did wrong; an’ worse, I was leadin’ you wrong. Will you give it up, Stevy?”
“Why, yes, grandfather.” Truly that was an easy enough thing to say; and in fact I was in some way pleased to know that my mother had been right, after all.
“Right, Stevy; be an honest boy always, and an honest man — better than me. Since I was a boy like you, I’ve gone a long way wrong, an’ I’ve been a bad man, Stevy, a bad man some ways, at least. An’ now, Stevy, I’m goin’ away — for a bit. Presently, when I’m gone, you can go to the stairs an’ call Bill Stagg — he’ll come at once. Call Bill Stagg — he’ll stay with you to-night. You don’t mind Bill Stagg, do you?”
Bill Stagg was an excellent friend of mine, and I liked his company; but I could not understand Grandfather Nat’s going away. Where was he going, and why, so late at night?
“Never mind that just now, Stevy. I’m going away — for a bit; an’ whatever happens you’ll always say prayers night an’ mornin’ for Gran’father Nat, won’t you? An’ be a good boy.”
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 146