The Rogues' Syndicate
Page 12
‘You seem to know a deuce of a lot,’ commented Ling crisply. ‘I suppose you’ve arranged to give ’em the tip when they’re to nab me? That would have been all right, if Hallett hadn’t slipped away. Now the surprise packet is going to be mine. I’m going to drink this liqueur, and my attention is going to seem to wander off you for a little minute—only seem, mind you. There’s a menu-card down by your hand. You’ve got a pencil. Now write on that that I suspect nothing, that I’m going to take you round now to the spot where the rest of the boys are. Then give it to the waiter to pass to them.’
The astuteness of the move appealed to Cincinnati. Ling was playing for time, to avoid immediate arrest. If the detectives thought they would make a bigger haul by postponing matters, they would do so. The ‘con’ man had no conscientious scruples about tricking them, but he was uneasy when he thought of the hints which Foyle had given him. If he could have safely betrayed Ling, he would. Still, life was, after all, worth clinging to—even if a certain proportion of it had to be spent in prison.
He followed Ling’s instructions docilely, and over his shoulder saw Menzies read the card, and nod without looking up. Ling drank his liquuer slowly, and there was a more complacent expression about his thin lips. Now that he had obtained a respite, he seemed in no hurry to go. He regarded the ‘con’ man with a sneer.
‘You’re not fit for this sort of thing, Cincinnati,’ he said, acidly. ‘You ought to stick to parlour games. A yellow streak doesn’t matter there.’
The other leaned back in his chair, unmoved by the insult.
‘I’m not silly enough to butt my head against a brick wall,’ he answered evenly. ‘One of these times we may meet on level terms.’
His eye dropped meaningly on the serviette.
‘Not if I know it,’ retorted Ling. ‘I like you better as you are. You’ll never be on level terms with me. I wonder what I’ll do to you?’ he went on reflectively. ‘Did you ever hear how they used to treat witches in the old days in Massachusetts? They used to stick red-hot knitting-needles through their tongues. It always seemed to me that wouldn’t be a bad punishment for squealers.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘Get my coat, waiter, and this gentleman’s.’
They marched out of the restaurant side by side, and a short walk brought them into Shaftesbury Avenue. Cincinnati had every nerve strained watching for an opportunity to escape; but Ling’s vigilance never relaxed.
‘I’ve got very attached to you this last half-hour,’ he explained, in friendly tones. ‘I wouldn’t lose you for anything. I want to hear you pitch a tale when we get time. It’ll be a real pleasure to learn how you’ve been working yourself to help us, and how I’ve been deceived by appearances into dealing with you harshly.’
This tribute to his inventive faculties did not seem to afford Cincinnati Red any pronounced gratification. He grunted something unintelligible. Then:
‘If I were you, Stewart, I’d take a taxi. We’ll never throw these splits off walking.’
‘Well, well,’ exclaimed Ling in well-assumed surprise, ‘it’s you who’ve got the brains. Fancy thinking of that. Never mind, the walk won’t hurt us, and perhaps a little exercise will do your chums good.’
Cincinnati doubted it, but did not repeat his suggestion. He was very uncertain as to what his companion proposed to do. The trick in the restaurant he had supposed to be but a temporary expedient of Ling’s in order to get away. Not to give the detectives the slip now they were in the open seemed like playing with fire. He knew Ling was a daredevil, but for a man whose neck was in jeopardy he was carrying things jauntily.
It was in Bloomsbury that they swerved off the main road into one of those hideous streets of tall boarding-houses with iron-railed areas and forbidding front doors of mid-Victorian era.
‘Nearly home, Cincinnati,’ encouraged Ling, ‘Now you’ll be able to see things move. We’ll see if there’s any knitting needles in the house afterwards.’
They ascended the steps of one of the most gloomy looking of the houses, and Ling inserted a key. He carefully closed and bolted the door after him, and ordered Cincinnati forward. There was a faint glimmer of light from a gas lamp in the hall.
‘The back room will do for us,’ said Ling. ‘Get along.’ A descent of a couple of steps led into a back sitting-room. Ling pointed with his pistol; he was carrying it openly in his hand now. ‘There’s a chair. Sit down. No, never mind your party manners. I want you with your back to me. That’s right. Now put your arms behind you, and keep still.’
Cincinnati Red felt something encircle his wrists, and a lashing was dexterously drawn tight. An involuntary cry escaped him. Ling finished the knot, and, stepping in front, swung a smashing blow at the bound man’s face.
‘That’s on account,’ he said fiercely. ‘If you don’t keep still, you’ll get a dose of lead in you.’ He thrust his face, contorted with passion, close to that of the ‘con’ man, and Cincinnati shivered. ‘I can’t do all I’d like to,’ he went on, ‘but I’ll pay the bill in full some other time—you bet I will.’
He stooped and tied Cincinnati’s ankles to the chair-legs as effectively as he had bound his wrists. Then he lifted chair and all, and staggered with it into the front room. He placed it by the curtained window, and stood for a moment breathless. Cincinnati was no light weight.
‘Now listen to me,’ he said, quickly. ‘I’m going to turn up the lights and draw the curtains back so that your head and shoulders can be seen from the street. Your detective pals will be in sight somewhere, and they’ll be pleased to see you. I shall be behind the door, and don’t forget I’ll let daylight into you if you play foxy. You’ve got to shake your head to them—see? Convey to them that everything isn’t quite ready. You know how to do it. Lean a bit forward, as though you were talking to somebody they can’t see. It’s up to you to keep ’em stalled off for a quarter of an hour.’
He slipped the curtains back and retreated to the door, out of the direct line of sight of anyone in the street. Cincinnati cast a casual glance out on the pavement, and made a motion with his head as Ling had directed.
He had a vision of Weir Menzies posed precariously on the iron railings four feet away. There was a smashing of glass as the detective leapt, and the ‘con’ man heard a vehement oath from Ling, followed by two sharp reports in quick succession.
Menzies tore furiously through one of the broken panes at the window fastenings. Presently he flung up the sash, and half leapt, half tumbled within. Royal stayed outside long enough to put a whistle to his lips in swift summons and appeal, and then followed his chief.
Cincinnati Red had fainted, with a bullet wound in his shoulder.
CHAPTER XVII
HALLETT had not stopped to consider any complications that might arise when he had rushed Peggy Greye-Stratton from the restaurant. Even had he done so, he knew that his action would have been the same. In a flash he had realised how a black cloud of suspicion already formed against her by Menzies would be increased should she be found in amicable association with Ling. Even he himself held doubts—doubts which no reasoning could have stifled, but which he stifled until there should be more time to resolve them.
She obeyed him without questioning. He hustled her into a taxi-cab, and gave an order to the driver. He sat down by her side, his heart pumping hard. Outwardly, though, he showed little indication of emotion.
‘A close thing that,’ he commented coolly.
She was trembling violently. Her face was half turned towards him.
‘You said the police—the detectives were there? Why? What are they going to do? How did they know?’ A soft, gloved hand lay on his knee, where she had placed it unconsciously in her eagerness. He noticed that it was trembling. ‘I am quite calm,’ she insisted, although her bearing gave the lie to her words. ‘You must tell me.’
‘I am afraid,’ he spoke gently, though his heart was aflame, ‘that your friend will be arrested.’
‘Oh!’ She dropped back against the s
oft cushions, her fists clenched, her face as hard as stone. Then suddenly she awoke to fierce life. ‘They mustn’t! I must go back, Mr Hallett. Stop the cab! Why didn’t I think at first? I must warn him. Let me alone. If you are a gentleman you will do as I say.’
She was striving to open the door, and he had to use force to pull her back to her seat.
‘Sit still,’ he said. ‘You can do no good now; it is too late. You have got to think of yourself. If you go back, you will be arrested. Will that improve matters?’
A fit of shivering shook her, and she covered her face with her hands. Jimmie watched her sombrely. To him there was only one explanation of her agitation—fear for the man who was her husband. In a little the fit passed.
‘I suppose you are right,’ she said colourlessly. ‘But’—her voice grew tense again—‘you don’t know what it means to me. You can’t know.’
‘That’s all right,’ he said soothingly. ‘I can guess. We will talk over all that later; nothing can be done until you are more yourself. If—if’—he suddenly became diffident—‘if money can do anything to to save him, you must call on me. A loan, you know,’ he ended tamely.
He saw the blue eyes fixed keenly on him with a curious expression that was hard of analysis.
‘You think that that man Ling is a murderer—that I want to save him?’ she said breathlessly.
And then, without warning, she broke into laughter—laughter that was akin to hysterics.
It was then that Jimmie Hallett did a thing which in the ordinary way he would have deemed impossible. He stood up, took her by the shoulders, and shook her roughly.
‘Stop that! Stop it at once!’ he commanded harshly.
He had never had occasion to deal with a woman in hysterics before, and the treatment was instinctive. He was relieved to find it effective. The girl quieted after one or two convulsive sobs.
‘I’m sorry!’ she gasped. ‘I am better now. Where are we going?’
‘I told the man to drive to the Monument. I didn’t know where you might like to go, and the important thing was to get away. One moment.’ He pushed his head out of the window. ‘Which is the nearest main-line depot to the Monument?’ he asked.
The man slowed up to answer the question.
‘Depot, sir?’ he repeated, puzzled. ‘Oh, you mean station! ‘You’ll want London Bridge.’
‘That will do.’ He dropped back to his seat. ‘It will be safer if we go a little way up the line and then return!’ he exclaimed. ‘They might try to trace you through the cabman.’
She made a weary gesture of assent, and the rest of the journey was accomplished in silence. A few rapid inquiries established that a train was about to start for Sevenoaks, and, chancing the possibility of a return connection, Jimmie took two first-class singles. His suggestion of a train journey was not entirely prompted by the wish to blind the trail; that would have been as satisfactorily achieved merely by entering a station. He wanted to get at the bottom of the mystery surrounding the girl, and, though he was no admirer of the compartment system of British railways, he recognised the advantages that an empty compartment would afford for a confidential interview.
The girl had rapidly regained her self-possession, and her abstraction vanished as the train started. She flashed a half-smile on him as the train started.
‘You will think me very foolish to have given way like this, Mr Hallett. It’s been good of you to take such trouble to serve a comparative stranger; I can’t thank you properly.’
‘There’s nothing to thank me for. I acted from purely selfish motives. I wanted to satisfy my curiosity; you remember I have only half your story.’
She met his eyes steadily. There was still only the faintest touch of colour in her cheeks. She had taken off her gloves, and was mechanically twisting them in her lap. He leaned forward and possessed himself of one of her hands. She tore it sharply away, and a gush of crimson swept over her face.
‘You mustn’t do that!’ she said hastily.
‘I beg your pardon!’ he muttered. ‘I forgot. You are married.’
The crimson in her cheeks deepened, and she took a long breath. Her blue eyes took on a new alertness. He had half-expected, half-hoped that she would deny it. Even the marriage certificate had not convinced him entirely, and her being with Ling that night had scarcely affected his hope. Yet he was a man of more than ordinary acuteness and common sense; he was ready to believe that there had been some incredible mistake.
‘I am married,’ she repeated. ‘And you know? How did you learn?’
He could hear her breath catch as she waited for his reply.
‘I have seen the marriage certificate,’ he answered simply.
‘And the police’—her words came incisively—‘they know?’
He nodded.
‘It was through them I learnt.’
A revulsion of feeling was coming to him. Somehow her fresh manner had broken the spell; there was something of calculation about it, of the fencer standing with weapon poised for offence or defence. Hitherto he had viewed her through a mist, content to accept what she had told him as the truth, and with faith that the unexplainable things would in time be made clear and her innocence apparent. He had brushed aside the suspicions of Menzies as a natural tendency of the police-officer to put the worst construction on anything.
Now he began to wonder if, after all, Menzies had been right. Was she merely a cunning adventuress who had all along deluded him and laughed at his folly behind his back with her criminal confederates? Looking at it coolly, he told himself he could see a score of reasons why it should be so. A couple of deep lines bit into his forehead. He had helped her escape, and her first words had shown her solicitude for Ling. Afterwards she had tried to dismiss the impression she had created or erected by an assumption of the mysterious. Quite possibly her whole intention since they re-met in the police-station had been to use him as a stalking-horse.
He had been gazing unseeingly straight in front of him. A light touch recalled his wandering thoughts.
‘What are the police doing?’ she asked. ‘You have not told me how they knew that Ling and I would be there.’
His face hardened. She was taking it for granted that she could pump him.
‘That is their secret,’ he answered bluntly, ‘as much theirs as your secrets are yours.’
‘I—I’m sorry!’ she stammered timidly. ‘You think I am taking advantage?’
‘I think, Miss’—he corrected himself—‘Mrs Ling, that there are several matters you should answer yourself before putting questions to me.’
She winced at the stress he laid on the name, and drew herself together.
‘I am to suppose that you distrust me?’ she said haughtily.
‘That’s a quaint way of putting it. Exactly what reason is there that I should trust you?’ He spoke brutally. He felt the occasion was not one for delicacy of language. ‘You have told me a story that I then believed to be true—a story of devotion to a scallywag brother. You said nothing about a greater motive for loyalty to your gang, your marriage to one of the most notorious criminals in the world.’ He sneered. ‘I shall see something to laugh at in the way I’ve been strung—some time.’
Her lips were parted and her breast was heaving. Undeniably pretty she was, with her flushed face and her eyes lighted till they looked like blue flame. There was neither shame or contrition within their depths.
‘Why did you help me tonight, then?’ she asked.
‘Because’—he wavered—‘oh, because I was a fool, I suppose. I thought there might be some explanation. I see now’—he made a gesture with his hand—‘there can’t be. You vanished as soon as Scotland Yard got a hot scent. You were afraid I might get dangerous, and you played on me with a note to get me into the hands of your pals. I fell for it all right—all right.’
She stared at him dumbly.
‘You got my note, then?’ she said, after a pause.
He laughed shortly.
She was leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, troubled thought in her face.
‘Gwennie Lyne! But you never came. And I don’t know Gwennie Lyne. What address did you come to?’
‘The address you gave—140a, Ludford Road, Brixton.’
‘That wasn’t it.’ She passed her hand over her brow. ‘There’s been some trickery. I don’t understand. It was quite another place. I wanted a friend. You didn’t come. I thought—oh, I didn’t blame you. There was no reason why you should run any risks to help me.’
He watched her with obvious disbelief. He was prepared for any effort to regain his confidence.
‘You think I’m lying,’ she said, with another change of manner. ‘Very well. You shall see and learn for yourself. I will prove to you that I am not lying, that I have not tricked you. You can keep your own counsel. All I ask is that you should not betray mine.’
‘You may rely on me,’ he said icily.
The train ran into Sevenoaks, and they alighted. There was a return train within a quarter of an hour, and this they caught. Both were grimly silent on the return journey, and for the most part Jimmie kept his eyes resolutely fixed on the blank blackness of the window. Once he surprised her watching him with an air of wistfulness. ‘A consummate actress,’ he thought, and shifted his gaze again to the window. To question her would be only to invite another series of lies.
At London Bridge she took command, piloting him to the Bank, and stopping a motor-’bus with an imperative wave of the hand. They ran through into the gloomy heart of the East End.
‘This is Shadwell,’ she said. ‘We get off here.’
It was hard to reconcile the dainty figure in the neat grey costume with the slums and squalor into which they entered. Through narrow, desolate streets she led him, past here and there a drunken man, or a riotous group racing from one public-house to another. At last she paused, and tapped with her bare knuckles on the unpainted door of a tumbledown house. He was not without courage, but he hesitated.