Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison

by Arthur Morrison

  For indeed, at the bottom of that pocket reposed a purse — not at all what one might expect to find there. In an instant that purse was transferred to the outside pocket, so closely adjacent, of Johnson’s light overcoat; and then Johnson paused for a moment, ostentatiously scratching his cheek with the guilty hand, and staring with rapt eyes at the window; till he judged it expedient to edge gently away and evaporate from the little crowd.

  He strolled easily to the next turning, turned up it with quicker steps, and so into a quieter cross street. Here he paused, plunged his hand into his side-pocket, and — found it empty.

  His chin fell, and he stood amazed. There was no doubt of it — this was the pocket into which he had dropped the purse, and now there was nothing there. He felt in the opposite pocket — needlessly, for he clearly remembered working with his right hand, and with his right side-pocket against the left pocket of the “immensikoff.” There was nothing now in either of his side-pockets, though he raked them through with anxious fingers. And then everything inside him bounced at the sudden touch of a hand on his shoulder. He shrank and turned, and found himself confronted by the man in the fur-lined coat.

  The man was grinning at him with sardonic politeness, and Johnson did not like him at all. He was tall and broad and dark, while Johnson was small and narrow and pale. The stranger’s black moustache was waxed into long spikes, which pointed toward the outer edges of the flat brim of a very tall hat, and gave a touch of the unearthly to his grin; and in his hand he extended toward Johnson a metal box — Johnson’s own tobacco-box, in truth, which he now remembered to have left in that same side coat-pocket.

  “How de do?” said the sardonic stranger. “Were you feeling in your pocket for this?”

  Johnson’s panic impulse was to deny his tobacco-box utterly, but the stranger’s black eyes were piercing his very brain, and he felt it useless. He took the box that was forced on him, and gasped unintelligible acknowledgments. He meant to say that he was extremely obliged, and didn’t know he had dropped it; but he never remembered what he did say.

  “I believe some sneaking thief picked your pocket,” said the stranger, his grin growing fiercer. “Open it and see if anything’s missing.”

  Johnson began a mumble that it was all right and of no consequence and didn’t matter, but the eyes and the satanic grin compelled him, and he sprang the lid. Instantly there arose from within a gigantic creature with horns, which ran across his hand on horrid clawed legs and made for his sleeve. Johnson squeaked like a rat, and flung box and insect to the ground together. He had a feminine horror of crawling things, and had never seen a stag-beetle before.

  The stranger snatched the box as it fell, and, brushing roughly against Johnson, skilfully scooped up the insect from the pavement.

  “What?” he said. “Do you mean to say it wasn’t yours at all! And yet you wanted to take it? Is there anything else in those pockets of yours that doesn’t belong to you? Show me!”

  “No, sir! Nothing at all, sir, upon my solemn davy!” wailed Johnson in terror. For the eyes and the grin were fiercer than ever. “Nothing at all, sir!” protested Johnson, pulling out the pocket-linings. And there, as the right-hand pocket came inside out, emerged the stranger’s purse!

  “Liar!” cried the dark man. “Thief! That is my purse!”

  He snatched it away and opened it, while Johnson stood helpless in amazement, with his pockets protruding on each side.

  “See!” pursued the stranger, thrusting the open purse under his nose. “My purse, with my money in it! What about that?”

  Instinct brought a jumbled defence to Johnson’s lips. “Quite a mistake — wouldn’t think of such a thing, being a gentleman himself. Accident that might happen to anybody — a lot of trouble in the family lately” — and so on.

  “What’s your name?” snapped the stranger.

  It disconcerted Johnson more than anything else to see that this fiendish person was grinning more than ever, while his unavoidable eyes seemed to divine more about Johnson than even Johnson ever knew. “What’s your name?” he demanded.

  “Jones!” spluttered the thief, in a panic. “Barker! — no, Jenkinson — I mean Johnson!”

  “Oh, I see,” the stranger replied; and now his moustache and his grin chased each other to the very tips of his ears. “I see; Jones, alias Barker, alias Jenkinson, and at present Johnson. Last conviction under the name Jenkinson, eh?”

  “’Twasn’t exactly a conviction, sir, I assure you,” protested the sweating pickpocket. “The judge’s mistake entirely — quite a misunderstanding; and the commonest watch you ever see; not worth a bob!”

  “And what did you get? A year?”

  “No, sir — nothing of the kind. It’s a wicked slander, sir, when anybody says it was a year. Not a day more than nine months, I give you my solemn word!”

  “After a dozen previous convictions?”

  “No sir — that’s another slander; anybody as told you that is trying to take my character away. There wasn’t more than seven, sir, or eight at the very most. It’s ‘ard to be scandalized like that, sir!”

  “Shocking!” The stranger had slipped his purse away and now had his hand on Johnson’s shoulder, with finger and thumb taking a good nip of his coat-collar. “Only seven or eight convictions! Poor chap; you shall have another at once. Come along!”

  “No, indeed, sir — let me alone! On my solemn davy, sir, it was all a mistake. I dunno how the purse got there!” And it surprised Johnson to find himself offering an excuse with such a deal of truth in it.

  The stranger’s grin relaxed a little, and his voice grew more business-like. “Very well,” he said. “Come with me for an hour and I won’t charge you. But don’t you displease me, my virtuous friend!” The grin flickered up again. “Don’t you displease me, or you’ll go back to as long a dose of gaol as I can get for you, mind that! You shall buy your release on my terms. Come along; but first stuff those pockets in again.”

  Johnson obeyed, and walked by the side of his persecutor in a maze of sickening bewilderment. Could he be really awake? The whole thing was uncommonly like a hideous nightmare, down to the very beetle. He had the most distinct recollection of his shock of surprise at finding his coat-pockets empty; yet he had put the purse there, and there it proved to be after all. The thing was the more like a dream, because his efforts to remember made it all seem like something that had occurred a long time ago. And he would doubtless have believed it a nightmare and made some desperate effort to wake himself, were it not for the fact that the gloating stranger most palpably had him by the arm as they walked through the back streets, and now and again put a question of such a pungent and penetrating nature that demanded all Johnson’s waking wits to meet it. Such wits as Johnson had were barely sufficient for the needs of his trade, and now they were oppressed by a feeling that he was being “got at” in some unfathomable manner; for indeed the satanic stranger chuckled gaily to himself as the torment went on.

  Their way led through numerous back streets, which Johnson was too disconcerted to recognize, even if he knew them; and at last they stopped before a very blank and secret-looking door in a tall building that had no more than two other openings in it, and those windows, small and high.

  The stranger opened the door with a latchkey, never looking at the key, but always at Johnson, with that embarrassing grin unaltered, unless it were now a little less fierce and a little more whimsical. The door revealed nothing but a dark passage, into which Johnson was pushed without ceremony. The place smelt damp, and on the whole strikingly like a cell in a police-station; a fact which gave the prisoner’s terrors a more definite turn. The door closed behind them and left them wholly in the dark; and Johnson, seized by the arm, was thrust stumbling and staggering along the passage till he emerged on a spot only a degree less obscure, where nothing was discernible but some vast construction of square beams that vanished into blackness above. Here the stranger paused, and groping in the gloom among
the beams, flung open another door.

  “Get in there,” he said, “and sit down. I shan’t want you for an hour. You can go to sleep if you like.”

  Johnson obediently stumbled into the dark opening, and the door slammed behind him with a bang and a sharp click. It was black — blacker than ever, but at least he was alone for a space, and might collect his faculties. He reached about him, and had no difficulty in finding the walls of his prison, for in fact they were scarce a yard apart in any direction. It seemed that he was in a wooden cupboard, with a ledge for seat. He sat on the ledge and wondered.

  Imprisonment was not wholly a novelty, though this was certainly the darkest cell he had ever inhabited, and the smallest. There was to be an hour’s respite, it seemed, but he was mighty uneasy as to what would happen at the end of the hour. He thought again of that horrible beetle, and the clothes tingled on his skin at the recollection, till he began to rub himself all over. Heavens! if there were more of them in this place! He jumped to his feet, shook himself and stamped, and then bethought him of his match-box. He found it and split it, stooped for it hurriedly, butted his head into one side of the cupboard and his opposite end into another, and came to the floor in a heap.

  “Now then, keep quiet in there!”

  The voice was a strange one — certainly not that of the dark man — and it came from — where? Nowhere about him, but apparently from somewhere above, though even of this he was not certain. Surely there was no possibility that he could be watched in this unspeakable darkness. He groped painfully, found a match, groped again and found the box to strike it on.

  The light was a great relief, for it revealed the fact that at least the place was free from visible insects. He could see now that his cell was wooden — top, bottom, and sides; and then came burned fingers and sudden darkness. He lit another match, and satisfied himself that there was no cranny, nor even a keyhole, through which peeping was possible; then he lit another to pick up those remaining, and another after that.

  “Now then!” came the voice again. “Leave off strikin’ them matches!”

  Johnson stopped, bumped his head again, and scrambled to his seat. Then he found courage to speak. “I say—” he began.

  “You stow that row, d’y’ear? Shut up.”

  The prisoner said no more, but waited. Strange noises reached his ear from some faraway part of the building, and a little nearer there were subdued creakings. He began to remember stories of mysterious rooms that closed up and crushed men imprisoned in them; of weighted ceilings that fell; of chambers slowly filled with poisonous gas. As he sat he began to tremble; and as the minutes passed he felt himself growing desperate with fear. He wished he had allowed himself to be handed to the police, for at least he knew what that meant. But now — he could not endure much longer. He had made up his mind, come what might, to shout his loudest for help; when, as he stood feeling the hundredth time for the door-fastening, he was suddenly flung backward and down, confusedly realizing that the cupboard was shooting upward bodily. Was the thing a lift?

  It stopped with a jerk, and the prisoner, recovering his legs, was aware of a loud and now familiar voice. There was a tap on the door, and a click; and instantly it flew open, and Johnson was blinded by a flood of light and deafened by a roar of sound.

  Hundreds of faces stared at him from a great hall, as many voices shouted a delighted greeting, and twice as many hands clapped loud applause. The cupboard stood open on a brilliantly lighted stage, and by it stood the sardonic stranger in evening dress, with a black wand in his hand; while Johnson, gasping and dishevelled, blinked and cowered helplessly.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” cried the conjurer, “I have the honor to introduce Mr. Johnson, alias Jones, alias Barker, alias Jenkinson, the eminent pickpocket. You will remember that when I enclosed the lady in the cabinet I promised you quite a new and original dénouement to the performance — something never before attempted. I think I have fulfilled my promise. Not only has the lady disappeared, but by an extraordinary application of occult natural forces I have brought into her place a pickpocket snatched this moment from his nefarious practices in Oxford Street. You observe his confusion? What more natural? But two minutes ago his hand was in the pocket of an eminent and distinguished gentleman, much like myself in appearance, seeking that gentleman’s purse. In an instant — whist! he finds himself placed before you on this stage, half a mile off. Ladies and gentlemen, it is just possible that some among you suspected the lady who disappeared of being a confederate of mine; but I defy any one of you to call this man a confederate. Does he look like it? Does he look as though he came here on purpose? Has he the calm, self-possessed, happy, smiling appearance natural to any man who has the good fortune to be in my employment? Look at him. Some gentleman who has ever had his pocket picked may remember him; if any of you are connected with the police you are sure to know him. He has been brought up at half the police-courts in London and has been convicted at the Old Bailey and the Sessions House over and over again. He has just completed nine months’ board and residence at this country’s expense, under the name of Jenkinson; if he hadn’t changed his name he’d have got more. Are you quite convinced, ladies and gentlemen, that he is not a confederate? Any test you like to suggest will be applied. Is there any lady present he has ever robbed who would like to stick a bonnet-pin into him? No? Don’t hesitate — you are quite welcome, I assure you. Come now, I wish you would. You see, under the Employer’s Liability Act I am liable for any injury occurring to people I employ, but I don’t care what happens to this chap. Come now, let me persuade you. Isn’t there any dear, kind lady present, who will oblige me by sticking a bonnet-pin into this criminal, just to oblige me? It doesn’t matter whether he has robbed you or not — I don’t mind. He’d rob you if he could, you know. Here he is.” He seized the wretched Johnson by the collar, and thrust him forward. “I always find ladies very obliging,” he went on. “Surely you won’t all be so unkind as to refuse just to stick him with a bonnet-pin while I hold him? Just to help me convince the company, now?”

  There were laughs and titters, and the conjurer whispered from behind: “All right, you fool, they won’t do it.” Then he proceeded, aloud: “You won’t? Not one of you? Then I shall have to try something else. I’m always glad to introduce a novelty into my performance, and I’ll think you’ll admit that this is the first time a real live pickpocket has ever been brought upon the stage in this extraordinary manner. Having got him here it would be a pity to waste him, wouldn’t it? Very well. I will proceed to try a little experiment with a view to showing how dishonesty would be dealt with in this country, if I were Prime Minister. Will any ladies and gentlemen in the company oblige me by the loan of a few small articles of value? A few rings, a watch, a gold pencil-case — anything of that sort, you know. I’m sure I shan’t have to wait long for things like that with such a high-class audience as this. Come now — thank you, sir; a ring; a valuable diamond ring from a gentleman in the second row. Yes? Thank you, madam — a locket. A gold watch? I should like a gold watch — and so would Mr. Johnson, I am sure. Here it comes — thank you, sir. A gold pencil-case — two more rings, a chain, and a silver match-box; thank you — thank you. I think that will do; we mustn’t risk too much on a first experiment, you know. Now I should like some gentleman from the company to assist me by placing these articles in Mr. Johnson’s pockets, in full sight of the house. Will you, sir? Thank you; just step up here. Now, will you please take the articles one by one from the table, and place them separately in any of the criminal’s pockets you choose. Well in sight of the company, mind. Stand a little aside — that’s it — so that everything shall be perfectly clear. I need hardly assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that this gentleman is no confederate of mine. I do not invite you to test it by sticking a bonnet-pin into him — he is a good deal bigger than Johnson, and it might not be safe. I am sure you will accept his word of honor from a gentleman of his size.”

  The gentlema
n approached Johnson and followed the conjurer’s instructions, and the conjurer, from a little way off, reported the bestowal of each article aloud. “Gold watch in right-hand waistcoat-pocket; diamond ring in left-hand waistcoat-pocket; chain in inside coat-pocket;” and so forth. As for Johnson, he began to feel a good deal happier. He resented the indignities to which he had been subjected, of course, but, after all, he had expected something much worse than this. All the bewilderment and anxiety of the earlier part of the adventure were at an end now, and all was plain enough. The conjurer had scored heavily, it was true, and the effect of Johnson’s appearance in the cabinet, aghast and panic-stricken, was something altogether beyond the possibilities of ordinary preparation and rehearsal. But Johnson’s relief was immense, and now the novel experience of having his pockets voluntarily stuffed with valuables was rather pleasant than otherwise. Johnson was himself again, and vastly on the alert for fresh moves in the game.

  The gentleman descended from the platform, and the conjurer came forward. “Now, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “you have seen the articles safely — or shall we say unsafely? — placed in the thief’s pockets. But to make everything perfectly plain, and to identify the owner of each, I will just rapidly run over them again. This ring, sir — you see it? You are sure you identify it? It is your property, and you will remember that it is in the left-hand waistcoat-pocket, where I carefully replace it, as you see. The watch — that is yours, sir; you may examine it again, if you please. No? Well, you will bear in mind that it is in the thief’s right-hand waistcoat-pocket. There it is. This chain — the owner of this chain may see that no substitution has been made — is in the inside coat-pocket, on the left. Remember that, please.”

  The company, vastly interested, watched the apparent return of each trinket, but Johnson knew better. Nothing but the conjurer’s fingers entered each pocket in turn, and nothing remained there at all. Somewhere within the breast of the conjurer’s coat was a spot over which his fingers flickered instantaneously after each pocket was done with; and when at last he turned away, ostentatiously dusting his fingers with his pocket-handkerchief after the contamination of Johnson, the handkerchief also flickered over that same spot. So much Johnson observed with eyes trained by use in all matters concerned with pockets.