by Frank Froest
‘You won’t do, my son,’ said Hugh. ‘We’re going right up to the doctor now, and you’ll have to get these ladies to excuse him five minutes.’
Congreve meanwhile had pushed himself to the stairs. Hugh released the dispenser, and followed. A dozen steps brought them to the consulting-room and face to face with a swarthy little man in a frock-coat, which barely concealed the dirtiness of his linen. Heavy, circular spectacles gave him something of the appearance of an owl.
‘Dr Steingurt?’ asked Congreve.
Hugh had softly closed the door behind them.
The doctor glanced at them through his gold-rimmed spectacles.
‘Vot’s the matter with you, eh?’ he demanded briskly. ‘Speak up, now! You see I haf a lot of people waiting, and as I only charge sixpence—’
Hugh muttered something below his breath. Congreve cut in.
‘We’re not patients. You’ll have to give us a little of your attention without any fee this time, doctor. We’re police officers.’
‘It is most ingonvenient that you come at this time,’ protested Steingurt. ‘I told the goroner’—he waved flabby hands at them—‘that I should not gome again. It was legal—oh, I know the law! I am not a jarity. The child would have died anyway, and the man which called me didn’t haf my fee. Why should I gif up a night’s rest for nothing? Dere is the hospital for paupers.’ He grew more excited. ‘I tell you I vill not gome to that goroner’s court any more. I will see my solicitor. I will not gome!’
Both detectives remembered the standing feud—it was continually being reported in the newspapers—between the coroner of the district and Steingurt. The doctor held that he was justified in demanding cash in advance when called to see a sick person, and more than once the patients had died before the money could be procured. Steingurt, moreover, demanded a fee for giving evidence in such cases as these, and literally snapped his fingers at the reiterated censure of coroner and jury alike.
The visit of the police, therefore, he associated with the recent case, and considered that a new ruse had been hit upon by his enemy to annoy him.
‘It is most highly ingonvenient,’ he repeated, ‘to come to my gonsultation hours and drag me down to that nasty court just to talk nonsense.’
‘Steady, doctor!’ remonstrated Congreve. ‘We’re nothing to do with that. You were called out last night—or rather, this morning. That’s what we want to talk about.’
Steingurt blinked behind his spectacles.
‘I am always being galled out. I will look at my book, if you like. Dere iss nothing wrong?’
‘Trickery,’ thought Congreve, well on his guard. Hugh was swinging a heavily shod foot thoughtfully. ‘We’ll know that when you’ve told us,’ said Congreve sharply. ‘You went to Levoine Street. Who did you see? Why were you called?’
‘That’s so,’ agreed Steingurt. ‘It was a little girl—a bad case of diphtheria.’
‘Really!’ The detective’s voice was silky. ‘And how much were you paid to keep your mouth shut?’
The doctor glared at him, and, suddenly advancing a step, shook a fist in his face. Congreve delicately extended the tips of his fingers and touching the other’s chest, pushed him backwards. Hugh was looking on with passive indifference, save that his foot still twitched backwards and forwards.
‘This is a gonspiracy to insult me,’ protested Steingurt. ‘I don’t believe you are police officers. You had bedder go, or I will have you thrown out.’
‘Was it ten pounds or twenty?’ persisted Congreve steadily. ‘It looks to me as if you knew there was something fishy on or you wouldn’t be so unwilling to talk.’
‘I gannot talk about my patients. It is professional eddiquet—you know very well.’ Steingurt seemed to have lost a little of his confidence. ‘You’ve got no right to question me.’
‘Just you listen to me, doctor.’ Hugh, big, overbearing, threatening, pushed his way into the dialogue. ‘We know all about professional etiquette, but we know a lot more about crooks—and those who get mixed up with them. Savvy? We ain’t here for lip-trap, so don’t you try us too far. Suppose we take him along on suspicion—eh, Congreve?’
Hugh was admirably suited for his work in the East End—big, absolutely fearless, direct. He knew exactly when to adopt the customs and language of his surroundings, and his peremptory air had its effect.
Steingurt became civil.
‘If you will sit down, gentlemen, I will tell my assistant we mustn’t be disturbed.’
‘That’s sensible,’ said Congreve.
The doctor gave his orders, and returned thoughtfully.
‘You know this neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘I am a busy man—very busy. I gan’t inquire into the moral character of everybody who comes for me, can I?’
‘You’ve got your living to make,’ agreed Congreve.
‘Yust so. Yust so. It’s a big practice, gentlemen—one of the biggest in the world. And every night I get waked up. Last night I get waked up three times. People always think they’re going to die yust as I get to sleep. What do I do?’
‘Tell ’em to go to blazes as a rule,’ said Hugh.
‘No. Not I. I tell them to go to the hospital or to the infirmary. I am not a jarity. But one of these last night was different. She was an old woman, and she rings and knocks—I was afraid she would have the place down. I told her to go away. She was offensive—not like the women of the East End, you understand, but more—more gultured offensiveness. “You’re wanted,” she says. “I’ll keep on ringing till I bring you down. I want to talk to you. It will be worth your while.” So I went down and opened the door on the chain.
‘“You must gome along with me at once,” she says. “Don’t stand there gibbering like a monkey, but get some clothes on and gome.” She pushed a folded banknote through the door, and when I opened it it was for five pounds. “There’s four more of those flimsies waiting for you,” she says, “if you hurry up and gome and keep your jaw shut.” “Where to?” I asked. “Never mind,” she says. “Are you goming or must I get someone else?”
‘So, of gorse, gentlemen, twenty-five pounds are twenty-five pounds, and if some poor soul was in trouble, why, I was bound to do my best. So I went. The woman said nothing of where we were going, but I knew the district. She took me along to Levoine Street and let me into one of the houses with a latchkey. “There’s a man fell downstairs and hurt himself,” she says. “I’m afraid it’s concussion.” I wondered what she knew of concussion, but I says nothing, and she takes me upstairs. There was a man there. He’d hurt himself pretty much, but it wasn’t concussion, and when I bandaged him up I told her he’d be all right if he was allowed to lie still for an hour or two. She says sharply, “Very well, then, that’s all right,” and counts out the other five-pound notes and gives them to me. “You’ll forget you’ve been here?” she says, and I told her I would. “Not that anyone’s likely to ask,” she goes on.
‘And then, when she was bringing me down, she says, “While you’re here there’s someone else you might look at,” and she knocked at a door and called out. A young lady answered it—a real young lady—not a girl like you mostly see around here.’ He waved his hand vaguely. ‘The old woman says something to her that I couldn’t catch, and I went in. There was a young man lying on a pallet in a corner. “What’s the matter with him?” I asked. “Got fooling round with a knife or something and hurt himself,” said the old woman. The girl didn’t say anything, and I could understand I wasn’t expected to ask questions. The man was pretty done up with a knife wound, and it looked like touch and go with him. There was a fever on him. So I did what I could for him, and the old woman volunteered to come and fetch some medicine. There, now, you’ve got the honest truth, gentlemen.’
‘Didn’t it strike you,’ said Hugh slowly, ‘that when you find a man with a knife thrust and another with something like concussion—both accidents—that you ought to have told the police? How do you know one of ’em ain’t died?’
/> ‘It was none of my business,’ protested Steingurt. ‘I was paid as a medical attendant, not as a detective.’
‘Are you likely to be going back there again?’ asked Congreve.
Steingurt shook his head.
‘Not unless they send for me.’
‘It was dark when you were called out. Do you think any of those people would recognise you again?’
The doctor was doubtful.
‘Would you recognise any of them? Give us a description.’
Although the officers painstakingly took down the descriptions which the little doctor strove to furnish, it was plainly hopeless to expect them to be of service. The ordinary person is always at a loss in attempting to convey a true portrait. It needs high training to enable a man to give the salient points of any person’s appearance—and even then the result is not always satisfactory.
‘Well, good-bye, doctor,’ said Congreve. ‘We may call again later on.’
Outside, Congreve hustled his companion along the wet pavement.
‘Come along,’ he said, ‘I want to telephone to Mr Menzies. I’ve got an idea.’
CHAPTER XXIV
ALTHOUGH his right arm hung limp and the set of his well-cut morning coat was somewhat spoilt by the bulge of the bandages on his shoulder, Cincinnati Red looked almost as spruce and debonair as ever. He listened with immobile face to Menzies’ expression of sympathy.
‘I’m right sorry,’ the detective was saying. ‘It was hard luck on you. You didn’t guess he twigged the game, or it might have been different. I’d back you against Ling every time.’
A whimsical, humorous smile lighted Cincinnati’s features.
‘I get you,’ he drawled. ‘You’re handing out the soothing syrup dope. I’m on to those tricks. What you giving me?’
‘Would you like to have another cut at Ling?’
The ‘con’ man drew his shaggy brows together and observed Menzies narrowly.
‘Would a duck swim?’ he commented shortly. ‘Wait till my shoulder gets well. If you’ve got another stunt to nab Ling, I’m not hankering after it, but I might be tempted—if it sounded good.’
‘Well’—Menzies crossed his knees and passed the cigar-box—‘we’ve got Ling located to an extent. You’ll be pleased to learn that he had a rough time after he gave us his little show. He got badly handled at a place in Shadwell, and they had to have a doctor.’
Cincinnati rubbed his hands.
‘That’s all to the good, chief. Say, I’d like to buy the guy who did it something.’
‘It was only a knock-out,’ explained Menzies, ‘and we, luckily, did not hear of it till this morning. We believe he got away in the night, but we’re not dead sure. Anyway, he can’t be far from the house we’ve located, and we know there are some other toughs in it. Would you care to call on the house and see who’s there? There’ll probably be someone who knows you, and you’ll be all right.’
‘Yep,’ said the other crisply. ‘Likely Ling. What chance would I stand walking into a wasps’ nest like that? It’s no good, chief. Call it off.’
‘Why, I didn’t think there was a yellow streak in you, Cincinnati,’ said Menzies. ‘I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I thought there was any danger. There’ll be plenty of my people on hand, but you’re not likely to get into any trouble. Didn’t I tell you that Ling had slipped out. I’d go myself, or get one of my chaps, only it would be better if it wasn’t a stranger. I’m asking as a favour.’
The ‘con’ man stroked his moustache in irresolution. He was really bitter about Ling, and would cheerfully have contributed any effort that would add to the discomfort or peril of his erstwhile colleague—so long as he ran no avoidable hazard himself. He was under no illusions in regard to Menzies’ honeyed efforts to persuade him. He knew that the chief- inspector had little bias towards him—that he regarded him merely as a crook—a crook who happened to be useful, and who might be coaxed into helping the law by fulfilling an instinct of revenge. Not that he had any compunction as to paying off old scores that way. It was just the question of risk.
‘You’ll let me have a revolver, of course?’ he asked.
Menzies shook his head. To use Cincinnati to achieve a purpose was all very well. But a weapon in the hands of a revengeful man, backed by the semi-authority of the police, was quite a different thing.
‘There won’t be any need for a pistol,’ he said. ‘We’ll be at hand if there is any trouble—but there won’t be any if you handle the job tactfully. Not that I wouldn’t let you have one if I had my own way, but you know how I’m tied down. Well, shall we consider it settled? I won’t forget you acted like a white man, laddie—some other time.’
After all, reflected Cincinnati, there was no reason why he shouldn’t chance it. It would put him right with the police, and very likely, as Menzies said, there would be no fuss. Until his shoulder healed there would be little card-playing at his flat, and if he refused the police would probably become unduly attentive to any other enterprise in which he might embark.
‘I’m with you,’ he said.
‘Good for you, Cincinnati!’ exclaimed Menzies. ‘I guessed you would. I have taken the liberty of having some clothes got ready for you. You can’t trail the East End in glad rags, you know. If they’re not your usual fit, so much the better.’
He glanced at his watch. It was half-past five.
‘I’ll have those things sent in to you,’ he went on. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
He was whistling softly as he passed along the corridor. He paused to tap at Foyle’s door and to poke his head inside.
‘All fixed up, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m going to rout out those men you promised me.’
As he closed the door a man touched him on the sleeve. He raised his eyebrows in question as he saw a brown-faced, silk-hatted man of medium size in a much worn frock coat. Then recognition came to him.
‘Why, it’s you, Congreve! They’ve done you well. How’s the likeness?’
‘It’s fair, sir,’ said Congreve complacently. ‘In a bad light, with anyone who doesn’t know Steingurt well, I’m likely to pass. Of course, I’m a bigger man, and as I hadn’t a photograph I had to explain to Clarkson’s people what to do as they went along.’
‘Makes you feel like a detective hero in a novel, doesn’t it?’
‘More like amateur theatricals,’ grinned the other. ‘I feel like the late lamented Guy Fawkes, and I’m in deadly fear lest my moustache should fall off.’
The chief-inspector became businesslike.
‘I don’t need to tell you, Congreve, that it isn’t any private theatricals. Start the boys off for me, will you? They can report at Shadwell till they’re wanted.’
‘Very good,’ said Congreve.
Night had long fallen when Menzies and Cincinnati Red emerged from the Underground station at Shadwell, and, with coat collars well turned up, struck off briskly through the driving rain in the direction of Levoine Street. They spoke little. The chief-inspector paused at last and nodded towards a shambling figure that was hurrying a dozen paces in front of them.
‘Keep your eye on that chap,’ he said. ‘He’ll give you the tip when you get to the house. Remember not to make any trouble, if you can help it. We just want to know what’s doing.’
‘I twig,’ muttered Cincinnati, and found that he was addressing nothingness.
For a substantial churchwarden, Weir Menzies had an astonishing faculty on occasion of obliterating himself.
Yet he was, nevertheless, keeping a keen vigil on the ‘con’ man moving in a deeper shadow close against the line of houses. It was as well to be sure, and Cincinnati’s heart might yet fail him. He emerged into visibility again under the light of the corner public-house in Levoine Street. The two loafers were still at their everlasting game of dominoes, and one turned an incautious look upon him. Menzies was fumbling with his shoe lace. He saw the ‘con’ man’s guide trip and lurch heavily opposite one of the houses. A moment later Ci
ncinnati was rapping at the door. It opened at last, and he stood in colloquy with someone unseen for a while. Then he stepped inside, and the door closed.
The chief-inspector walked to the private bar and ordered a Scotch-and-soda, which he drank slowly. Once he looked at his watch, and answered absently the barman’s comment on the weather. In Magersfontein Road, Upper Tooting, the apathy of one of its prominent horticulturists to weather conditions might have been set down as an eccentricity. Something worse might have been thought of a churchwarden who, with bowler hat tilted at the back of his head, stood sipping whisky-and-soda at the bar of a low-class East End public-house. But Menzies had forgotten that he was either a churchwarden or a gardener.
Twice more he looked at his watch, and a slight frown crossed his forehead. Never too ready to put implicit confidence in a crook, he was wondering if Cincinnati had played him false.
There was, in point of fact, no justification for these doubts. Cincinnati Red was feeling too sore with Ling to dream of playing false with the police. The door had been opened to him by none other that Mrs Battle herself, who stood determinedly in the doorway and scrutinised him with a stare in which there was no recognition.
‘Well?’ she demanded, with some asperity and an unnecessary loudness. ‘What do you want?’
Cincinnati smiled pleasantly upon her, and leaning forward, spoke in a low voice.
‘Is Mr Ling in? No, no!’ He raised a deprecating hand as he saw a denial forming on her lips. ‘I’m a pal of his. You tell him that Cincinnati Red is here, and wants to pass him a word. Say the little trouble last night was all a misunderstanding, and I’ve come to clear it up and put him wise to one or two things.’
She appraised him grudgingly for a while.
‘I don’t know nothin’ of any Ling,’ she grumbled loudly. ‘I’m a honest, ’ard-workin’ woman, and I ain’t no use for blokes what comes talking riddles to me.’
She made as if to close the door, and for the fraction of a second her face was under the full rays of the street lamp. His foot strayed absently over the lintel. It was part of his profession to be a shrewd judge of faces, and in that respect there were few men, even at the Yard itself, who could have taught him anything.