The Rogues' Syndicate

by Frank Froest

  Not that that was likely, for Heldon Foyle had volunteered for the task of sifting those who were brought into the police-station, and he had inimitable faculty for smoothing the creases out of the most irate citizen’s temper. Menzies was left to conduct operations on the spot.

  It was an advantage that both Gwennie Lyne and Ling were known crooks. Their photographs had been circulated, and among the assembled detectives were at least a dozen who had been on occasion in personal contact with one or the other. This simplified matters, enabling Menzies to split up four parties to start at different points.

  None of them were novices at the game and weapons, official and un-official, bulged in many pockets. They had been warned there might be gunplay, and though in London a crook is allowed first shot, that is no reason for allowing him a second or a third. Nevertheless it was nervy work.

  The bulk of the army of detectives merely hung about the street with their eyes open, in case they were wanted. Comparatively small parties entered the house to view the inmates, by now mostly asleep. Now and again the light from a lantern or an electric torch would rest longer than usual on the face of one of the sleepers, or someone would pull back the blanket, which by accident or design had been shifted so as to conceal features.

  Those who were aroused for the most part took this domiciliary visit with apathetic curiosity. Sometimes a growling curse would be thrown at the officers, sometimes an attempt at rough chaff, which the detectives answered in kind. Only when they were met with opposition did the stern purpose beneath their good humour show itself.

  A short, stocky Cockney Irishman, red-haired and obstinate, barred the passage at one house. ‘An’ it’s meself that wants to know what for ye are troublin’ dacent folk at this hour at all at all,’ he demanded.

  ‘That’s all right, Mike,’ said the burly Hugh, good-humouredly. ‘We’re police-officers. We’re just taking a look round. Look out of the way.’

  The Irishman’s jaw jutted out, and his face became bellicose. ‘It’s not me house that ye’ll be turning upside down,’ he announced. ‘Ye’ve no right at all, at all, an’ by the Splindor of Hiven I’ll paste the fir-r-st blagguard o’ ye that tries to come it.’ He shook a beefy fist at them. ‘I’m a respectable man, and I know the law.’

  One of the detectives brought up from the river police peered forward. He was an Irishman himself. ‘That you, Tim Donovan?’ he said. ‘Sure the last time we met you had a lot of ship junk that some omadhaun had stuck in your cellar. An’ you in the marine dealers’ trade, too. We’ve lost sight of ye since then. Do ye want to meet that magistrate again, or is your cellar full now?’

  The reminiscence—an episode in which he had figured as the receiver of stolen ship’s stores—appeared to infuriate him. ‘It’s meself ye foresworn Judas,’ he snarled, ‘an’ if ye’ll just kindly step up it’s meself that’ll measure the length of me fut on your carcase. Not a hair o’ any of ye comes into my house.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ commanded Hugh, curtly. ‘Stand aside if you don’t want to be taken for obstructing the police.’

  ‘Come and make me, ye big oaf,’ challenged the little man, and swung a blow. Hugh, who held the heavy-weight police championship, swayed his body, and the Irishman swung half round. Hugh’s hand descended on his collar, and he was jerked forward into half a dozen willing hands, and held securely while a little rumble of laughter went round.

  The house, like most of the others, was packed with humanity, and as the river man had suspected a store at the back full of rope and metal explained Tim’s unwillingness to allow unimpeded access to the premises. That, however, was a minor matter in the circumstances. Of far more importance was the fact that among Tim’s coterie of lodgers was only one who had not been awakened. He was sleeping in the remote corner of one room, with his face turned to the wall.

  Congreve it was who walked over and casually lifted the blanket. One glimpse he took, and the next moment he had his arms around the kicking, cursing occupant, and had lifted him bodily to his feet. An automatic pistol dropped on the floor, and a couple of men hurried to Congreve’s assistance. The struggle was brief.

  They dragged their prisoner—he was fully dressed—towards the door, and two or three lights fell on a face that was distorted with rage—a sallow, thin face with a hawk-like nose, and high cheek-bones, surmounted by a shock of thick, curly black hair. He wore a reddish brown suit of American cut, the skirts of the coat sagging low over his hips, and the wide peg top trousers with a well-defined crease. Glaring from his neck tie was an enormous pearl pin—too big to be genuine.

  He ceased his struggles as soon as he realised their futility, and stood scowling round on the police.

  ‘Tell dem gazebos to take de spot light off me,’ he complained. ‘I ain’t no stage prima donna.’

  ‘Get him outside,’ ordered Congreve. ‘The guv’nor’ll want to see him.’

  He walked meekly out into the street with his escort, and Congreve sought out Menzies. ‘We’ve pulled one thug who looks a possible, sir,’ he reported. ‘Big Rufe Isaacs, shamming asleep in his clothes, with a gun by his side. I grabbed him quick. He didn’t get a chance to use it.’

  Menzies removed his pipe from his lips, and a look of interest came into his face. ‘Big Rufe, eh? Good business. Has he got shiny elbows, or do you think this isn’t the kind of place he’d hang out while he’s got dough?’

  ‘That’s what I thought when I spotted hm. He’s no tramp. Looks as if he could afford the Carlton if he wanted it rather than Tim Donovan’s doss-house.’

  ‘Fetch him along. No. Wait a bit. Ask the “Three Kings” to let us have a room, and cart him in there. I’ll come and talk to him.’

  Big Rufe, as the manner in which he had been taken showed, was one of those crooks who are not averse from running desperate chances, and probably if Congreve had not acted as quickly as he did murder would have been set alight in Tim Donovan’s boarding house. Had he had brains he would have been as formidable an international criminal as Ling himself. But he had no brains—only an immeasurable audacity and a degree of cunning that had carried him through until both New York and London had got to know him. For him to embark on an enterprise unaided was to court immediate disaster, and after tripping several times, he had wit enough to recognise the fact, and to attach himself when possible to the banner of some more masterful crook, who could plan as well as execute. He was an admirable tool when working under directions and away from liquor—a skilled mechanician, with a brute courage that had, more than once, got him into trouble. Like most crooks he was a free spender.

  The circumstances permitted Menzies little doubt that one of the unknown factors in Ling’s gang had at last been run down. Big Rufe, out of luck and without a penny in his pocket, might have been found in an East End doss-house without any deduction being necessarily drawn from it; but Big Rufe, flush and well dressed, in Levoine Street, and with a gun in his hand, could have only one explanation.

  The man was palpably uneasy when Menzies walked in upon him. The chief-inspector greeted him affably. ‘Bad job this of yours, sonny. You look to be in it bad.’

  Rufe had all the philosophy of the captured crook. He would cheerfully have shot Menzies or anyone else if by doing so he could have secured a chance of escape. But once taken he held no futile animosity. Violence, either of speech or action, he knew would be merely silly. His mouth glistened with gold filling as he smiled cheerfully.

  ‘Not,’ he ejaculated. ‘No pen for mine. If you’se de wise guy you’d take these mittens off.’ He shook his wrists, on which the thoughtful Congreve had taken the precaution to encircle handcuffs. ‘Say, this will be funny stuff for the Sunday supplements wit you Scotland Yard bulls, I don’t think. What do you reckon you’re holdin’ me for, huh?’

  ‘Persecuting a poor, down-trodden American citizen again, Rufe, eh?’ commented Menzies. ‘We can’t help it. It’s the way we’re built. Let us down light with your journalist pals.’

/>   ‘G’wan,’ commented Rufe shortly. ‘Cut it out.’

  He was grinning, but there was an uneasy look in his eye. The usual gambit of the crook—and it does not matter what grade in the criminal hierarchy he adorns—is bluff when he is run to earth. It is an easy weapon to handle, and can do little harm if it fails.

  ‘Just as you say,’ agreed Menzies, amicably, ‘What are you doing up in this quarter, Rufe? I thought Piccadilly was more your mark.’

  The other was ready. ‘There’s a kiddo chief—y’ know I wandered down to—’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Enid Samuels. She—’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Her boss, he’s got a little cigar factory down Commercial Road. She’s a cigar maker. Say, chief, you ought to see her—she’s a peacherino—’

  ‘Aren’t you wasting time?’ said Menzies, acidly. ‘Look here, Rufe, you know you’ll get a square deal from me. You didn’t come to meet your kiddo, your Enid, your peacherino with a gun. You didn’t expect to find her in Tim Donovan’s kip, did you? What kind of suckers do you take us for to swallow that? You know what we want. Where’s Ling and the others laying up?’

  Rufe blinked several times in succession. ‘Come again,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t get you.’

  The chief-inspector crossed his knees, and eyed the prisoner placidly. From his breast pocket he took an official blue coloured document. ‘This is your dull night, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘You know all about English law, I reckon. I can’t put you in the sweatbox. A police officer mustn’t ask incriminating questions of a man he intends to arrest. I can’t make you give yourself away, Rufe, can I?’ He shook a menacing forefinger.

  The prisoner shuffled his feet uneasily, and his insolent eyes lost something of their boldness. He was shaken, and he showed it. ‘There ain’t nothing against me, anyway,’ he agreed.

  ‘No.’ There was an intonation of polite surprise in Menzies’ voice. ‘Nothing at all. Just a few little things like arson and conspiracy to murder don’t count in this game. I reckon Gwennie has been playing you for a rube.’

  The beady black eyes caught fire. ‘I ain’t nobody’s fool,’ he cried. ‘Gwennie can’t put it over on me.’

  ‘I’m glad you feel like that, Rufe.’ From Menzies’ air he might have been chatting confidentially with an intimate friend, in whose troubles he took a sympathetic interest. ‘Shows a trusting nature.’ Rufe glowered at him suspiciously. ‘Funny though, isn’t it? Here’s the mob of you go out for a hatful, and when you miss your jump who gets left behind? Why, Dago Sam and Errol and you. Gwennie isn’t in the basket, I bet you. No, nor Ling, either. That’s what I mean when I say they played you for a rube.’

  Two deep vertical lines etched themselves in Rube’s forehead, and his lower jaw dangled. It was part of the soundness of the detective’s position that the other did not know how much he knew. He had instilled into Rufe a profound distrust of his confederates. The crook was being deftly provided with a new point of view calculated to stir the idea of reprisal in his mind. His hands opened and clenched.

  ‘If I thought that,’ he said, and suddenly paused and raked the detective with his gaze. ‘How do I know you ain’t stringin’ me?’ he demanded.

  Menzies flung his hand out in a listless gesture. ‘It doesn’t matter to me,’ he said. ‘I just hate to see folk double crossed though.’ He leaned forward. ‘D’ye see, Rufe, you were due to get left anyhow. They were using you to pull the chestnuts out of the fire, but do you reckon you’d have been in at the share-out? I don’t.’

  ‘That’s your word,’ persisted the other doubtingly. ‘Youse want me to squeal on ’em. You’re some sleuth. Where do I come in if I put you wise?’

  ‘I get ’em anyway,’ answered Menzies, indifferently. ‘You’d maybe save some time and trouble.’ He spread his hands out wide. ‘You’re no chicken, Rufe. You know what you’re in for. I can’t help that, can I? I guess you’ll take whatever’s coming to you like a white man. But after the dirty way they’ve treated you you ought to get a come back on them. Didn’t you now?’

  In point of fact Menzies had no knowledge as to whether Rufe was being treated fairly or not by his confederates. He was workng on the line of least resistance. It is never at any time difficult to arouse in the mind of a crook a surmise that he is being double crossed by his associates. Rufe had neither the skill nor the wit to conceal in his features the fact that the seed Menzies had sown had met with fertile ground.

  ‘I guess dem gazebos ain’t worrying about me any?’ he admitted. ‘But they’re in it as bad as me, ain’t they, chief?’ He shot a cunning glance at Menzies.

  ‘Worse,’ agreed that individual. ‘Of course, there’s that little job of Errol’s, but I know you, Rufe. You wouldn’t go to do a thing like that without being properly asked for it.’

  It was a long shot, but by no means a shot at random. The very character of Big Rufe had been sufficient to convince Menzies that here he held the most likely author of the knife thrust which had laid up Errol. He spoke casually, as though the fact was what lawyers call common ground, and he had his reward.

  ‘You’re on to it,’ said Rufe, eagerly. ‘Dat guy was too fresh. He took liberties, you understand, and when he pulled a gun on me he got what was coming to him.’

  The chief-inspector’s face was immobile. He gave no sign of having scored another peg in his investigation. Leaning over against the door Congreve, apparently more interested in his fingernails than in the conversation, jerked his head without looking up, and Menzies knew that he had heard, and appreciated the importance of the confession.

  ‘You know what you’re saying, Rufe?’ Menzies warned. ‘Of course it isn’t news to me, but I’ll have to say you owned up. If you didn’t mean it I’ll forget it. Not that it will make much odds.’

  ‘Sure I know,’ said Rufe, with a definiteness that showed he had made up his mind. ‘I ain’t blind. You guys have got it all fixed up for me, an’ I don’t make any trouble—see.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘Why should I be denying it? If it’s me for gaol, you bet I want Ling for company.’

  There was no need to correct the crook’s impression that his admission was a work of supererogation. It made things promise to go easier. So long as Big Rufe believed that things were utterly hopeless for him, so long would he do his best to see that he wasn’t lonely in the dock.

  ‘We’ll pull him, presently,’ said Menzies, confidentially. ‘If he’s inside our lines he can’t get away.’

  The gold filling in Rufe’s mouth flashed again. He was amused, and made no attempt to conceal it. ‘You’re off your bearings there,’ he said. ‘You don’t really think you get Ling as easy as that, do you? He ain’t inside no cordons. No, sir.’

  For half a second Menzies wondered if he had underestimated Big Rufe. Was the man as simple as he seemed, or was he trying to deftly confuse the trail? The reflection was swept away as swiftly as it had arisen. Big Rufe was not the person to get such a notion or to carry it out if he did. He would not so willingly have committed himself to save his dearest friend.

  ‘He had a private aeroplane waiting, I suppose?’ he said, with heavy irony.

  Rufe’s wide-mouthed grin extended still further. ‘En she quay?’ he said, with deliberate mystery.

  ‘En she quay?’ Menzies frowned. ‘Now what the blazes do you mean by that? You aren’t trying to come the funny boy on me, are you, Rufe?’

  ‘Huh.’ Rufe was plainly disgusted. ‘You’re a right smart Alick, ain’t you, not to know what that means?’

  ‘My education’s been neglected. Tell me.’

  Rufe squinted cunningly sideways at his interlocutor. ‘I’m telling you nothing—see? If any mutt says I squealed I didn’t—see?’

  Menzies began to see daylight. ‘Of course, you didn’t Rufe. You wouldn’t do such a thing. I get you.’

  ‘Why,’ went on Rufe, reminiscently, but with an air of intense seriousness. ‘I got left for a
sucker, as you said just now, chief. I been hanging round a joint back o’ this street with Ling lately. We could see Gwennie’s place from the back window. There’s a room there she didn’t use, and Ling framed it up wit’ her only this morning, and if she wanted us around she was to put a handkerchief across one of the panes in daylight, or light up a candle after dark.’

  The chief-inspector bit his lip. The possibility of a system of signalling had been so obvious that he had overlooked it. He cursed himself mentally. Aloud he merely said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, when that tin horn, Cincinnati, came nosing around, Gwennie begins to smell something, an’ she tipped us the office. You better bet we came round, and Ling and Gwennie fixed the show for fireworks. I didn’t have any hand in that. I swear I didn’t.’

  ‘Get along,’ ordered Menzies, sharply. ‘How’d they get away?’

  ‘Gwennie took her chance, and beat it out the back in the yard before we put a light to the place. She’s an active old lady for her age, and she seems to have a sort of respect for you, chief—kind as if she knew you’d block all bolt-holes from the front. She had a bit of an argument with Ling about it. He holds that there’d be time for a get-a-way from the front, because we came that way, and calls her down for a mutt giving the game away by climbing back-yard walls. She wouldn’t argue. “If you’ve any sense, Stewart,” says she, “you’ll do what I’m going to. The bulls’ll be waiting outside for Cincinnnati.” Dat woman’s got some sense, chief; but Ling, he didn’t see it. And I didn’t reckon there was much to it till we got lit up. Ling, he stays behind. “You go see if the old lady’s got it straight,” he says. “Dey’se not looking for you, anyway.” So I beat it, and sees the cops holding everybody up just as the fire-engine come. I lights back, but I didn’t get the chance to get at Ling. But he must have tumbled to the racket, because the next I see of him he came out, and walked straight down the street, and through you lines, boss, and not one of your guys was wise to him. He’s some nervy is Ling.’