Shadow of the Hangman

by Edward Marston

  ‘I’m glad that it never came to that.’

  ‘So am I. There were too many witnesses.’

  ‘Do you think that Beyton will be able to raise the money in time?’

  ‘That’s his problem, Jane,’ he said. ‘We’ve given him two days and it should be enough. That beautiful house of his is well beyond the reach of most clerks at the Home Office. Beyton must have private wealth.’

  She smiled. ‘Then we’ll help to spend it wisely for him.’

  ‘A fool and his money are soon parted.’

  ‘What about Mrs Horner?’

  ‘She stays where she is until he pays up for the second time.’

  ‘Being locked up down there is really telling on her, Vincent,’ she said with a vestigial sympathy. ‘Whenever I go to the cellar, she’s weeping.’

  ‘Stop looking at her as a human being. She’s just a pawn in a game.’

  ‘Suppose that Mr Beyton refuses to obey our demand?’

  ‘Then his wife is going to have a very nasty surprise,’ he said. ‘But I doubt very much that we’ll be in that position. Beyton frightens easily. If he thinks that he’ll be responsible for Mrs Horner’s death, I’m sure that he’ll do as he’s told.’

  Before they got within fifty yards of the old warehouse, they could hear the raucous noise from within. Hundreds of patrons were enjoying the spectacle of a terrier killing rats with methodical brutality in the ring. Bets were being laid about how many he’d dispatch in a certain length of time. Money changed hands briskly. When the corpses began to pile up, a man tipped another sack of live rats onto the sawdust. Most of them scurried to the corners of the ring and some even tried to run up the boards. When they saw the dog, a few even made the mistake of attacking him and were snapped in half by his gleaming teeth. Spectators urged the animal on and its owner shouted commands. The crowd surged to and fro around the ring.

  It was into this maelstrom that Moses Dagg stepped. A place full of foul-mouthed ruffians, drunken sailors and a smattering of prostitutes was familiar territory for him. He’d been in similar establishments in ports around the world. As a regular visitor, Dermot Fallon felt completely at home, waving to people he knew and collecting a series of greetings. The only person who had reservations was Tom O’Gara. He’d seen the complacent grin on the face of Donkey Johnson, who was lounging in a corner with a tankard in his hand and a couple of burly friends beside him. For the first time, O’Gara realised the scale of the challenge that Dagg was taking on. In the mounting delirium, and with the vast majority of people cheering him on, Johnson would be a formidable opponent.

  The sight of Fallon’s dog diverted the newcomers, burrowing madly through the legs of the spectators to get to the ring. Hearing the terrier’s bark, the dog was eager to join in the entertainment. He leapt over the board, saw the rats darting around and pounced on one straight away. Pleased to have competition, the terrier increased the speed with which he crushed the vermin between his teeth. Fallon’s dog followed suit and people were soon placing wagers on which one was the better rat-killer. Fallon was quick to bet on his own animal.

  O’Gara and Dagg, meanwhile, were approached by a tall, emaciated man in his sixties with a beer-stained cap perched on his straggly white hair and a moulting beard that fell to his chest. He introduced himself as Nathan Egerton, the referee for the fight. The first thing he did was to feel Dagg all over, finding two hard lumps under his coat. He pulled out a dagger and a shillelagh.

  ‘No weapons allowed,’ he announced.

  ‘I’ll take care of those,’ said O’Gara, seizing them from Egerton and slipping them under his coat. ‘I hope you’ll search Johnson for weapons as well.’

  ‘With fists as big as his, he doesn’t need any.’

  ‘What are the rules?’ asked Dagg.

  ‘No gouging of eyes, no biting below the belt, no throwing sawdust into each other’s faces. For the rest,’ said Egerton, ‘anything goes. There’s one last thing to remember, Mr Dagg. I’m the referee. My decision is final.’

  ‘Make sure that it’s an honest decision.’

  The old man was hurt. ‘You’ll get nothing else from me.’

  An ear-splitting cheer suddenly went up and they turned towards the ring. The contest was over. Two ragamuffins jumped into the ring and began to load the dead rats into their sacks. Well over a hundred were gathered up. Another urchin climbed over the board with a large bucket and scattered fresh sawdust over the blood-covered morass. Panting for more action, the animals had been reunited with their owners. Fallon pushed a way through the crowd with his dog under his arm.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he asked. ‘He just won me two pounds!’

  It was a good omen.

  When they gathered at the appointed spot, darkness was falling and there was a persistent drizzle. Micah Yeomans looked around the wet faces and gave his men their orders. Hale was beside him, tossing in the occasional comment. Filbert was a reluctant member of the foot patrol but Ruddock was in the front line, chest out and eyes glinting. From where they stood, they could hear the surging tumult inside the warehouse. It made some of them move back in alarm but Ruddock displayed no fear. However big and boisterous the crowd, he was ready to wade into it. Yeomans, however, advised patience.

  ‘The fight has only just started by the sound of it,’ he said. ‘Let’s give them plenty of time to burn off their energy. Ruddock?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘You can be our lookout.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Yeomans.’

  ‘It’s a reward for what you did. Can you all hear that?’ he went on. ‘It was this man who learnt there was a nigger fighting and who wondered whether it was the one who escaped from Dartmoor. Ruddock used his brains.’

  ‘Well done, Chevy,’ said someone, setting off a general murmur of praise.

  ‘Why didn’t you do the same thing, Filbert?’

  ‘I was going to,’ claimed Filbert.

  ‘Ruddock had to do it alone.’

  ‘It was my idea really. Chevy will admit that.’

  ‘You said it was a waste of time, Bill,’ argued Ruddock.

  ‘No, I didn’t. You need to wash your ears out.’

  ‘And you need to start telling the truth,’ warned Yeomans. ‘I’d always believe Ruddock before you. He can stand by the door of the warehouse and watch the fight while you stay within hailing distance.’

  ‘I’ll get soaked in this drizzle,’ protested Filbert.

  ‘It will help to keep you awake. When Ruddock gives you the signal, run and fetch the rest of us.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘We’ll be sheltering in The Jolly Sailor. I’m told that there’s a barmaid in there with the biggest tits in England. While we’re feasting our eyes on them, you can stay out in the rain. Call us when it’s time to move in, Filbert.’ A thunderous roar suddenly went up inside the warehouse. Yeomans rubbed his hands together. ‘The fight is warming up,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and drink to a night of triumph, gentlemen.’

  The preliminaries had been inaudible. Nathan Egerton had done his best to call the spectators to order but excitement was running too high and drink was flowing too freely. O’Gara and Fallon were acting as Dagg’s seconds. Johnson seemed to have everyone in the warehouse firmly in his corner. When stripped to the waist, he was a fearsome sight with bulging muscles and a carpet of coarse hair from neck to midriff. However, Dagg had noticed a potential weakness. His opponent had a sizeable paunch whereas the American had no superfluous flesh. His naked torso glistened in the candlelight and drew many grudging compliments. Spectators close enough could see the livid scars on Dagg’s body, souvenirs of brawls in which knives and broken bottles had been freely used. One thing was immediately evident about the Black Assassin. He was a survivor.

  The fight had started as Dagg had expected. Donkey Johnson came rushing at him with teeth bared in a mocking grin, hoping to fell him with a first murderous blow. He swung his arm wildly but Dagg ducked beneath
it and hit him with a vicious hook that stung the bigger man’s ear. Johnson needed a moment to clear his head before hurling himself into the fray once more, flailing away with both fists. Dagg used his feet this time, swaying out of reach then replying with some fierce counter punches that jolted his opponent. While he could hurt Johnson, however, it was obvious that he could not yet stop him in his tracks. The man was too big, strong and wily.

  After another failed attempt to land a meaningful punch on the Black Assassin, Johnson changed tactics. He lowered both arms to his sides and taunted Dagg with outright abuse. The crowd took up the chant, demanding that the American get on with the fight instead of dancing around their champion. Dagg responded by doing something he’d planned in advance, flinging himself at Johnson and delivering a relay of swift punches, saving the heaviest of them for his opponent’s mouth. Three of his front teeth, which had given him the appearance of a donkey, were knocked out and blood was sprayed everywhere. Shocked by the bravado of it all, the crowd fell eerily silent. Something unheard of was happening in front of them. Their unbeaten champion was losing a fight.

  Johnson was not finished yet. Enraged by the loss of his teeth, he went back on the attack, throwing punches so rapidly that Dagg was unable to elude them all. Instead, he took them on his forearms, protecting his body from any damage. The occasional counter punch rocked Johnson back on his heels but he soon recovered to swing his fists once more. Since he was at last inflicting punishment, the onlookers found their voices and egged him on, offering all kinds of obscene advice about what he should do to his challenger.

  O’Gara and Fallon were exhorting their friend to finish his opponent off but their voices were drowned out by the mob. In any case, Johnson was not going to be defeated without a colossal and sustained effort. Seeing his chance, Johnson grappled with Dagg then shoved him hard against the board where a friend was waiting to lend his help. The man began to pummel Dagg from behind but his involvement in the fight was only momentary because the American jerked his elbow back so hard that it knocked the breath out of him and made him double up in agony. When he tried to raise his head again, the man was grabbed from behind by Fallon and dragged clear of the crowd. One crack with the shillelagh was all it took to knock Johnson’s friend unconscious.

  Dagg had been rescued from his unseen attacker but he still had to contend with an infuriated Donkey Johnson with blood streaming from his mouth. The bigger man was starting to pant stertorously, but the power of his fists was not diminished in any way. What was clear was the fact that he was slowing down. After punching himself free from the board, Dagg got back to the middle of the ring and began weaving so cleverly that Johnson’s fists were missing him by inches. Diving forwards out of frustration, Johnson got hold of his shoulders and pulled his head back with the intention of smashing it down on the bridge of Dagg’s nose but the American took immediate action to counter the tactic. He lowered his own head immediately so that Johnson’s forehead smashed into the top of the Black Assassin’s skull and did little more than give him a headache. The clash of heads, however, had dazed Johnson and he reeled back. Dagg was on him at once, battering away at the paunch with both hands until the bigger man retreated a few paces in sheer agony.

  Dagg pursued him relentlessly; switching his attack to Johnson’s face and opening a deep gash over one eye. Blood gushed out and there was a roar of protest from the crowd. Having bet on their champion, they were watching him being beaten by a faster and more cunning opponent. Advice poured in from all sides.

  ‘Hit him in the bone-box, Donkey!’

  ‘Draw his cork!’

  ‘Smash his face in!’

  ‘Break his arms!’

  ‘Bite his black balls off!’

  ‘Kill him!’

  Blind in one eye and with his energy sapping away, Johnson resorted to foul play, lashing out with a foot and catching Dagg on the thigh. As his opponent went down on one knee, Johnson lunged forward and grabbed him by the throat, squeezing hard and making Dagg’s eyes bulge. Verging on hysteria, the crowd pushed forwards and shouted their champion on with partisan vigour. At long last, Donkey Johnson seemed to have the advantage.

  Chevy Ruddock could see nothing whatsoever of the fight. Standing just inside the main door, his view was blocked by solid ranks of bodies. The only indication he had of what was happening in the boxing ring came from the crowd. The clamour rose in volume, subsided, rose again to a higher pitch then dissolved into a collective groan of disappointment. A sense of outrage filled the warehouse and a volley of expletives was fired. When brawls broke out among the spectators, Ruddock decided that the fight was over. Running out of the door, he waved to Filbert who was standing dejectedly in the rain with a lantern in his hand. When he saw the signal, Filbert turned on his heel and trotted forty yards along the river bank to The Jolly Sailor. When he pushed his way into the bar, he found his colleagues drinking happily out of the rain. There was no time for Filbert to join them. His only reward for being on sentry duty outside was to feel the sensuous brush of the barmaid’s enormous breasts as she went past him with tankards in both hands. For a second, he was bemused.

  ‘What’s happened?’ demanded Yeomans.

  ‘The fight’s over,’ said Filbert.

  Even his friends could not believe that Dagg had won the fight. When he was down on one knee and being throttled, it looked as if he was going to lose but the Black Assassin had reserves of power. As the grip tightened on his throat, he hit the side of Johnson’s head with a punch of such ferocity that it made his opponent release him and stagger back. Dagg leapt to his feet and hit him from all angles, exploring his paunch, flattening his nose, opening up another gash on his face and attacking him with such bewildering speed that he was unable to defend himself. After pinning Johnson to one of the boards, Dagg completed his assault with an uppercut that caught him on the chin and sent him sprawling into the sawdust. The champion had been defeated. It was a highly unpopular victory and some of the patrons tried to get at the winner in order to vent their anger on him. While O’Gara defended his friend, Fallon went off to collect his winnings. Johnson remained unconscious on the ground.

  The warehouse was a scene of utter pandemonium. When Yeomans arrived with his men, it was impossible to pick out the fugitives at first. Dagg’s colour eventually gave him away. It was Ruddock who spotted the Black Assassin and pointed him out to Yeomans. The Runners pushed their way through the crowd to get at him and his friends. O’Gara and Dagg were still fighting people off when Fallon came charging over to them.

  ‘We’re leaving,’ he yelled. ‘The Runners are here.’

  ‘Moses is exhausted,’ said O’Gara. ‘He needs a rest.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to carry him out, Tom, or he’ll be resting in prison.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Dagg, looking at his bruised knuckles. ‘I’m used to pain.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ ordered Fallon. ‘They’ve probably got men at the doors but I know another way out. Follow me.’

  He made his way towards a staircase in the corner of the building, throwing anybody brutally aside if they got in his way. The Americans went after him, O’Gara helping Dagg along. Though he’d won the fight, the Black Assassin had taken a fair amount of punishment and was aching all over. His body was awash with sweat and covered with the blood of his opponent. Ruddock came out of the swirling mass and grabbed him around the neck, only to be lifted bodily by Dagg and hurled away like a rag doll. Filbert got even shorter shrift from O’Gara. When he tried to arrest him, he was felled instantly with a punch between the eyes.

  The person in real difficulty was Fallon. Yeomans had him in a firm hold. Having had the Irishman pointed out to him by Nathan Egerton, he’d caught him at the bottom of the stairs. Fallon fought back but Hale arrived to help his colleague. Between them, the Runners overpowered him. When O’Gara and Dagg reached the stairs, they saw that he was unable to escape. Ready to attack the Runners, their intervention proved unnecessar
y because Fallon’s dog came to the aid of its master, biting Yeomans and Hale in turn and forcing them to release their grip. While the animal kept the Runners at bay, the three men went up the stairs and ran along a landing until they came to a window. Though it was a long drop to the ground, they jumped out fearlessly and rolled over as they hit the flagstones below.

  ‘Meet me back at the ship,’ ordered Fallon.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked O’Gara.

  ‘I’ll lead the Runners astray.’

  ‘Thanks, Dermot.’

  O’Gara fled into the darkness with Dagg. The dog had now appeared at the window and was yapping away. Fallon gave the command and the animal hurled itself out, landing safely in his master’s arms. After hugging the dog, Fallon patted the full purse at his belt. It had been a very profitable night.

  There was considerably less profit for the Runners. Though they scoured the river bank for the three men, they were unable to catch any of them. All that Yeomans and Hale had to show for their efforts were some shredded clothing and some nasty bites on their legs. Ruddock’s coat still bore the marks of Dagg’s sweat and Johnson’s blood. All three of them paid a second visit to The Jolly Sailor. Ruddock was ordered to pay for the drinks. While they were quaffing them, Yeomans issued an edict.

  ‘Nobody must ever know about this,’ he said.

  ‘We ought to tell the Home Secretary,’ suggested Ruddock.

  ‘He’s the last person to be told.’

  ‘I don’t see why, Mr Yeomans. After all, we did track the three of them down to that warehouse and we did tackle them. We showed intelligence and courage.’

  ‘What use are they for a dog bite?’ said Hale, sourly.

  ‘We almost caught them, Mr Hale. You had Fallon in your grasp.’