Settling Scores

by Martin Edwards

  Joe was an older man, who had accompanied Hallows from Lancashire. He was devoted, body and soul, to his boss, and was prepared to do anything that was asked of him. One of the cash bookmaker’s difficulties is that, returning late in the evening, very often laden with money, he has no chance of banking his winnings till the following morning. Hallows had met this by installing in his lodging (he was a single man) a heavy safe with a modern lock that would defy anything less than a skilled cracksman with an acetylene outfit. In spite of this, the cautious north-countryman would not leave the safe unguarded, and the arrangement was that Joe should remain on guard while the boss slipped out and got his dinner. After that, Hallows would take charge and Joe was free to go home.

  On the present evening Hallows, after “safing” his money, garaged his car and slipped into his accustomed restaurant. He had had very little lunch and he did not hurry over his dinner, but by half-past eight he had finished and, feeling well pleased with himself and his day’s work, lit a pipe and started to stroll home. It was still broad daylight, but the shortest way to his lodgings led through some dark and gloomy alleys. He was half-way down one of these when a movement in a passageway caught his eye; instinct caused him to swerve, but he was too late and he fell heavily to the ground with a knife quivering in his back and blood pouring from his mouth.

  Fortunately a woman in the house opposite saw what happened, sent her nipper for the doctor, and herself did what she could with a towel to stop the bleeding from the wound itself, in which she wisely left the knife. The doctor came quickly, followed by police and an ambulance, and in ten minutes John Hallows was in hospital, but it was a desperately near thing. For three weeks he lay at death’s door; the point of the knife had missed his heart by half an inch and the hæmorrhage from the lung wound was so severe that only his strong constitution and freedom from alcohol and nicotine saved him—that, and the untiring devotion of poor Joe, who had spent a horrible evening waiting for his boss to return, before buttonholing a policeman and eventually tracing “the old man” to hospital. Deserting his wife and children, Joe refused to quit the boss’s safe at night-time until Hallows was sufficiently recovered to be able to give him instructions as to how to bank the money.

  While still in hospital the bookmaker did some pretty hard thinking. It was evident that he had been the victim of one of the race gangs of which he and Sam Trapps had talked on their way up in the car, and it was fairly certain that as soon as he recovered, the gang would be on to him again. He was faced with a life of perpetual blackmail or perpetual danger—and neither of these alternatives pleased him. He knew he could expect little help from the police, and he decided to take matters into his own hands.

  Hallows was out of hospital in five weeks, but it was not till the end of July that he made his reappearance in the silver ring at Fleetwick. He received a welcome from his fellows that was warm, hearty, or effusive, according to their natures; none warmer than old Sam Trapps; none more effusive than Josh Blare’s, who declared that nothing in life had given him greater pleasure than the news of Hallows’ return from “the valley of the shadow.” Sam, who had been to see him in hospital and knew all about it, had kept him a pitch next to himself and swore he wasn’t going to let him out of his sight. One sharp-eyed neighbour on the other side observed that Hallows had got a new clerk, and received the information that Joe had got tired of the south and gone home, his substitute having been picked up at a Labour Exchange where he was applying for a post as “secretary and accountant.”

  The day’s racing was uneventful, but John Hallows quickly began to feel the strain of standing about after his long convalescence. Feeling definitely faint, he slipped off to the refreshment room for an unaccustomed brandy and soda, which quickly revived him. As he emerged from the bar, he ran full tilt into no less a person than Beauty Jake, looking, if possible, more sinister than ever. To Hallows’ amazement, Jake greeted him effusively, and before he knew what had happened, the bookmaker found himself buttonholed and jockeyed into a quiet corner. Here Jake quickly changed his tone:

  “Y’ve had yer warning,” he muttered hoarsely. “Yer know now what yer gits if yer don’t pass when y’re told. Y’ll come that twenty now, quick, and any other time y’re asked. See?”

  With the utmost difficulty Hallows kept his hands off the man. For one thing he knew that in his weakened state he was no match for the broad shoulders and strong arms of the bully. But he had a better reason than that.

  “Hold hard, lad,” he said slowly. “You must give me time to think this out. It means a life of blackmail if I give in.”

  “It means death if yer don’t,” was the succinct reply.

  “What if I tell the police?”

  “Where’s yer proof? Besides, y’d be dead before yer got in the witness box.”

  “Well,” repeated Hallows doggedly, “you must give me time to make up my mind, anyhow. I’ll let you know next week at Dover.”

  “Beauty,” who knew that his boss would rather have a live “passer” than a dead “stick,” grunted some form of assent and sidled away. As a matter of fact, there had been no intention to kill Hallows after the Tattenham Park meeting; a knife in the arm to warn him was the idea; but John’s swerve had brought the thrown knife on to a more dangerous line.

  Hallows returned to his stand, but did not tell Sam what had happened. He had his own reasons for keeping quiet.

  Three nights later Hallows was sitting in his lodging smoking a final pipe before turning in, when he heard a tap at his door.

  “Come in,” he said sharply.

  A face consisting of little more than a gigantic grin, appeared round the door—the face of the man who had “got tired of the south and gone home,” but bereft of its accustomed moustache and adorned with a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that rendered it completely unrecognisable.

  “Joe!” exclaimed Hallows. “Come in, you old scoundrel.”

  Joe slipped into the room and sank into an empty chair while Hallows opened a bottle of Bass and pushed it across to him.

  “Well, laad?”

  “Well, ah’ve got ’em, boss.”

  “You have?”

  “Ay. Got ’em Toosday, matter o’ faact. But ah wanted to mak’ sure—and ah have. Saame lot, saame plaace every time.”

  “How many?”

  “Foer. That Josh Blare, t’ bookie, is boss.”

  “My God!”

  “’Im and Beauty Jake, and two knife-boys.”

  “What about Blare’s clerk?”

  “Not in it. Dead innocent. Thaat’s where Blare has t’ braains. Clerk knows nowt, would swear his boss knew nowt. It’s they foer only.”

  “And where do they meet?”

  “Private bar at the ‘Daainty Cheese,’ Wigg Street, off Tower Bridge Road. Not twenty minutes from here. Thaat’s how they were so quick on to you, yon night—they’d seen you before—where you lodged and fed. Private bar’s right away from public bar, down a passage—real private it is—separate entrance.”

  A slow smile spread over Hallows’ still pale face.

  “Good,” he said. “We’ll reconnoitre. Finish your drink, laad, and lead on.”

  On the following night Hallows sat as usual in the tap-room of the “Broody Hen,” drinking his customary modest pint of bitter and discussing the problems of the hour—mostly to do with horse-flesh—with the other patrons of Mr. Chippon’s licensed house. Presently he got up and, without saying good-night, slipped quietly out of the room; only the landlord, Dick Chippon, seemed to notice his departure.

  Out in the street Hallows found his car waiting, with Joe at the wheel. Without a word, the latter slipped in the gear-lever and the car jerked into motion. A few minutes later they had turned into a quiet street off the Tower Bridge Road and the car pulled up.

  “Just give me time to get there, Joe; then come quietly up. Keep the engine running.”

  Joe nodded without comment, and Hallows, getting out of the car, started down
the street away from the crowded thoroughfare. Presently he turned to the right into an even more deserted street; in fact at this hour of the evening—half-past nine—there was not a soul about. Without hesitation Hallows made his way to the entrance to a small public-house—the “Dainty Cheese”—and turned into the passage which led to the private bar. He was wearing rubber-soled shoes and his footsteps made no sound.

  Away to his left he could hear loud voices coming from the tap-room, but it was not there that his interest lay. Almost at once the passage turned sharp to the right and led, according to a dingy notice, to the “Private Bar.” With one ear cocked behind him Hallows approached the closed door, from behind which he could just catch the murmur of voices. Looking about him, he quietly moved a small table nearer to the door, listened again, and then turned the handle and slipped into the room.

  There were four occupants of the private bar, two middle-aged men, one fat and one short and square, and two lanky, vicious-looking youths. They were seated on the far side of a long table, facing the door, with glasses in front of them, their heads together in earnest conversation. At the sound of the opening and closing of the door they looked up, and the next instant, in response to a sharp command, flung their hands over their heads.

  “Stand oop!” In the excitement of the moment Hallows was dropping into dialect.

  The four men obeyed, staring nervously at the solid, determined-looking figure with its back to the door and a heavy revolver with a clumsy-looking muzzle-attachment in its right hand. As Hallows faced his enemies he had Blare on his right, next to him, Beauty Jake, and then the two “knife-boys.”

  “Ah’ve coome to show you two can plaay at this game,” said Hallows quietly. “Which of you young swine knifed me?”

  The youth on the extreme left jerked his head at his companion.

  “Ben,” he said, in a husky voice.

  “Get across next to Blare, Ben,” said Hallows. “Go on, move!”

  It was a fatal mistake, though its intention was obvious enough. As Ben passed in front of Jake, the latter’s right hand dropped to his side and the next instant a revolver cracked. Hallows felt the wind of the bullet past his ear. Instantly he pulled the trigger and in response to the little cough of his gun Josh Blare collapsed slowly to the floor. As he fired, Hallows sprang to one side and Jake’s second bullet ripped down his forearm, searing the flesh like a red-hot iron. Jake was holding the unfortunate Ben in front of him as a shield, whilst the other youth, petrified with terror, still held his arms above his head.

  The crack of Jake’s second shot was instantly followed by another cough from Hallows’ gun, and Ben in his turn collapsed. His falling body threw Jake off his balance for a second, and in that time Hallows had opened the door and slipped out of the room. Flinging the door to behind him, Hallows tipped over the small table. A large man, running from the bar, blocked his way, but Hallows lowered his head and, catching him full in the stomach, sent him flying just as the door of the private bar was jerked open and a pursuing figure crashed over the small table full length to the floor. Hallows dashed out into the street and leapt into the car, which Joe threw into instant and violent motion. A knife crashed against the window, but only splintered the safety glass and fell back harmlessly into the road. Looking back, Hallows saw Jake brandishing his pistol, but evidently thinking better of attracting notice by open-air firing. Ben’s companion was retrieving his useless weapon from the roadway.

  Round the corner, Hallows ordered Joe to pull up. Joe looked his inquiries.

  “I’m going to finish this job,” said Hallows, whose arm was hurting him villainously.

  “You’re never going back, boss?” exclaimed Joe in consternation.

  “I am. No good leaving it half done. They’ll never expect me.”

  “But t’ cops?”

  “If there are any coming I shall see them; but I don’t believe there are. I know this neighbourhood; they’re pretty scarce unless they’re sent for.”

  Slipping off his raincoat, Hallows exchanged his hard hat for Joe’s disreputable cap.

  “Wait here and keep her running.”

  “Ah’m cooming t’ door.”

  “Wait here!”

  Joe, miserable but obedient, sank back into the driver’s seat, whilst Hallows slouched slowly off down Wigg Street back to the “Dainty Cheese.” He was right; there was no policeman in sight. A small group of loafers, principally consisting of children, stood on the opposite side of the street facing the public-house, but they did not seem greatly excited. Probably no news had reached them; only some boy had seen a brandished pistol and a knife thrown at a retreating car.

  Hallows strolled into the side entrance. He had half expected to find it crowded with the occupants of the public bar, but evidently those worthies knew enough of their neighbourhood and business to keep clear of gun-play—if they had even heard Jake’s two shots.

  Through the half-open door of the private bar Hallows could see the landlord and Jake stooping over a body on the floor. The other youth, if he was still there, was out of sight. Once more Hallows slipped silently down the passage and, entering the room, closed the door behind him. The knife-boy, he saw, was seated at the end of the table, his head buried in his arms.

  “Out of the way, landlord,” said Hallows, softly. The two men looked up; the landlord flung himself to one side and Jake’s hand flew to his pocket, but Hallows’ bullet, fired at point-blank range, crashed into his brain and he dropped, a lifeless heap, to the floor. The knife-boy tried to hide under the table, but Hallows’ bullet dropped him to his knees and another stretched him beside his companions.

  Hallows turned to the landlord.

  “Better keep your mouth shut about what you know,” he said grimly; then, after a glance at each of the four men on the floor, turned on his heel and left the room. Outside all was as it had been when he left it, the two coughing grunts of his silenced “gun” had conveyed nothing to the group of idlers in the street, even if they had been heard. Hallows lounged out of the side door and strolled down Wigg Street in the direction of Joe and the car. It was the most difficult walk he had ever done in his life; instinct urged him to run, but he knew that his one hope lay in lounging. Nobody was paying any attention to him.

  Meantime the landlord of the “Dainty Cheese” was doing some quick thinking. It was a question of what enemies he least wanted to make. Blare’s gang he knew—one of the most dangerous of the smaller groups in the game, but it was done, finished, wiped out. On the other hand, if he gave information against the killer—whom he did not know, but who was almost certainly a member of a rival gang—he stood in deadly peril of extermination himself, before he could get into the witness box. So far he got and then, realising that he must not be found doing nothing, with four dead bodies in his private bar, he hurried to the telephone in his small office.

  “Tower Bridge Police Station, quick, miss. That the police? Hakett, landlord o’ the ‘Dainty Cheese,’ Wigg Street, speakin’. There’s bin a fight in my private bar—four chaps dead. Come at once, fer Gawd’s sake.”

  He hung up the receiver and turned to the difficult task of concocting a tale of convincing ignorance. In five minutes, Inspector Toller, a sergeant, and four uniformed constables were in the house and the crowd outside had grown like magic.

  Inspector Toller gazed down upon the unpleasant sight on the floor of the private bar.

  “What on earth’s been happening here?” he asked.

  “Don’t know, I’m sure, guv’nor,” declared Hakett. “Must ’ave ’ad a quarrel and done each other in.”

  Toller eyed him sharply.

  “Know who they are?”

  “Oh, yes, guv’nor, reg’lar customers. That’s Josh Blare, the bookie; ’im with the ’ead blown in’s Beauty Jake. The red-’aired lad’s Ben and t’other’s Sloppy Alf. Pals they was come ’ere reg’lar. Can’t understand it.”

  “One of these race gangs, for a monkey,” said the inspector
to his lieutenant. Then, turning to the landlord: “Now then, Hakett, who shot ’em up?”

  “S’welp me, guv’nor, I know nothin’ about it. Not till I ’ear the shots; then I rushed in ’ere an’ sees these blokes lying bleeding in all directions—all as dead as mutton. Then I rings you up.”

  “But you must have seen something of the other fellows getting away.”

  “I tell yer, guv’nor, I didn’t see a soul, I believe they did each other in.”

  “And not a gun to be seen anywhere,” said Toller contemptuously. “Race, take one of these constables and question that crowd outside. Somebody must have heard and seen something. Phillips, help me search these fellows for guns, but don’t disturb the lie of the bodies before the doc. comes.”

  ‌Death at the Wicket

  ‌Bernard Newman

  Bernard Charles Newman (1897–1968) was a great-nephew of George Eliot, but an author of a very different kind. Like Gerald Verner, he was one of those highly professional mass-producers of commercial fiction who was usually ignored by the critics, but who enjoyed considerable popular success during his lifetime before fading into literary oblivion after his death. He is undoubtedly one of very few writers who met both Adolf Hitler and President Roosevelt, and his books often touched on political themes, especially during the Second World War. Secret Weapon (1942) introduced Winston Churchill as a character, while the books he published under the name Don Betteridge included The Mussolini Murder Plot (1936). He wrote numerous espionage novels, most notably Spy (1936), which is said to have been banned in Germany but used as a textbook in Russia.

  Fact and fiction tended to blur in Newman’s life as well as in his stories, and although it has been claimed that he worked as a spy in both world wars, Newman denied that this was true; whether his denial was accurate, of course, is a matter for conjecture. Certainly, his sporting activities would have afforded some cover for espionage. He was passionate about cycling and a member of the Cyclists’ Touring Club; it is said that he cycled through every country in Europe. His cycling adventures were chronicled in twenty books, while his very first, Round about Andorra, sprang from his enthusiasm for walking as well as travel. Three different sports provided him with the background for novels: Cup Final Murder (1950), Centre Court Murder (1951), and Death at Lord’s (1952). This is another cricket story, and it was included in the very first Crime Writers’ Association anthology, Butcher’s Dozen (1956), which was edited by Josephine Bell, and two contributors to this book, Michael Gilbert and Julian Symons.