“Capone’s five thousand miles away,” argued Logan. “I doubt he even remembers Morgan exists. But none of that matters anyway, Billy. I’ve got a plan!”
“You’ve gots a plan . . . ?” Billy repeated, rubbing his stubbly beard skeptically. “You hain’t thinkin’ of pullin’ some dodge on Morgan?”
“I know I can do it, Billy!” Logan’s eyes flashed with enthusiasm.
“Lad,” said Billy in a more cautious tone, “hain’t you ’eard the ol’ sayin’, ’Ne’er con a con.’?”
“Sure, Billy. But I like the saying better—’It takes a thief to catch a thief.’”
“Humm . . .” was Billy’s noncommittal reply.
Logan needed no further encouragement to outline his plan in detail.
“I spent the morning at the library, Billy, reading some American newspapers. Morgan has a little hobby—more like an obsession—which I’m going to make his downfall. Seems he’s a dabbler in counterfeiting. He’s been run out of half a dozen states, and when he finally slipped from the FBI’s reach in Florida, an agent was quoted as saying that Morgan wouldn’t quit till he found the perfect plate. When he was forced from the States, he went to Cuba for a while, then to South America, and after that Paris. He was almost arrested in Paris again—for counterfeiting.”
“You’d think he’d learn ’is lesson,” replied Billy.
“That’s just it! He figures somewhere out there he’s going to find the perfect plate and be set up for life. And that’s where I’m going to get him!”
“An’ do you ’ave the perfect snide note?” Billy’s single cocked eyebrow indicated he would not be easily convinced.
With a great flourish and a smug grin to match, Logan whisked out a brand-new five-pound note from his pocket. He handed it to Billy.
“See for yourself,” he stated.
Billy held the note out at arm’s length, shook his head in frustration, then, pulling himself out of the chair, hobbled over the bedside where he found a pair of spectacles. He shoved them on carelessly, grumbling, “Can’t see for nothin’ th’out these blimey things.”
He then proceeded to examine the note, first holding it close to his eyes, then at arm’s length again, and finally up in the air over his head. “Well, I ne’er,” he mumbled. At length he shuffled over to the only window in the room and held it up to the sunlight. He turned it over several times, and when he turned back toward Logan there was a perplexed scowl on his face.
“Where’d you get this?” he asked at last.
“The Bank of England,” Logan replied, slapping his knee and laughing heartily.
“I knew it were too perfect,” said Billy, unperturbed by Logan’s laughter.
“Admit it, Billy! I had you fooled and you know it.”
“’Course, but I’m blind as a curs’d bat!”
“I’ve seen those spectacles of yours! They’re practically clear as glass.”
“An’ so wot do all your tricks prove? Nothin’ is wot I say!”
“It’s the perfect counterfeit note!” said Logan triumphantly. “Morgan would pay a bundle for the plates to that note.”
“An’ I doobt the Bank of England’s sellin’!”
“You know what I’m getting at, Billy.”
“Aye, an’ ’tis plumb harebrained! Don’t be a fool, Logan.”
“You’re the best, Billy, and it fooled you.”
“You set me up! ’sides, I knew it couldn’t be real. One look’ll tell any sane man as much.”
“Morgan will want to believe it so bad, it won’t take that much to convince him. We’ll set him up, too! When he sees this, he’ll think he’s found the best counterfeit notes in the world. I’ll sell him the plates, slipping some real counterfeits into the package, making sure he walks right into the waiting arms of the police. I’ll get all Skittles’ money back, with a nice profit to boot. And the bobbies’ll have a dangerous criminal off the streets.”
Logan paused, the fire of anticipation still burning in his eyes.
“You’re mad as a March hare, Logan.”
“I need your help.”
“I hain’t done no snide pitchin’ since I done two years in the chokey for it,” Billy replied.
“You won’t have to make up any bogus notes,” Logan quickly assured. “I just need some help putting together a press. And . . .”—here he hesitated once more before going on—“ . . . I need a real plate.”
“You’re crazy, Logan, I tell you. He’ll see you comin’ all the way across the city! He puts young scamps like you in the bottom of the Thames!”
Now it was the older man’s turn to pause. Logan held his peace. He was as sure of Billy’s allegiance to Skittles as his own.
“Logan,” Cochran went on at length, “you can get yoursel’ into real trouble doin’ somethin’ like this.” For the first time the older man’s voice carried a note of deep concern. “If they fin’ you with the plates or the notes.”
“They won’t!”
Billy scratched his large nose and rubbed his hands over his scraggly face again. “I knew I should’ve burned all that hardware last time I were sent up,” he muttered.
“Then you’ll help.”
“’Tis pure craziness. But then I guess wot more could you expect from a deranged Scot . . .” He paused, shaking his head. “An’ ’sides, someone’s got t’ keep an eye on you that you don’t get yoursel’ locked up, or killed by Morgan.”
Logan grinned and slapped the little man on the shoulder.
“’Sides,” Billy added, “I s’pose I owe it t’ Skittles.”
It was now Logan’s turn to grow serious. “There isn’t a man on this side of London, leastways who knows old Skits, who doesn’t owe him something.”
“Okay, Logan,” said Billy, “tell me wot you was thinkin’.”
Logan spent the next fifteen minutes outlining his plan in more detail, after which Billy proceeded to poke a hundred holes in every careless aspect of it. Then the veteran counterfeiter set about reshaping Logan’s original strategy, adding dimensions to it that Logan had scarcely considered. By the time they were through, even Billy admitted that there might be a slim possibility the harebrained scheme could work. One problem remained to be considered.
“We’ll need cash for operatin’ expenses,” said Billy.
“There is a bit of a problem there,” Logan conceded. “I sort of had t’ ’borrow’ that fiver there.”
“I ’ave the feelin’ that when word gets out about Skittles, we’ll find no shortage of contributors.”
“How much do you think we’ll need?”
“I’ll need parts for a press an’ you need enough new notes t’ be convincin’—a couple ’undred pounds.”
“We could do it with less if we had to.”
“Mebbe. But I’ll start collectin’ the funds regardless. I’ll tell you wot t’ get for the press—I’d get picked up sure if I tried it! You ought t’ go out of town for wot we’re needin’, just in case.”
Then Billy dug into his pockets and pulled out an assortment of coins, along with a fine gold pocket watch. “This ought t’ get you started.”
“Not your watch, Billy!” Logan knew it was the only possession of any value the man had these days, and he had many times seen him hold it up in the midst of his cronies at the pub and announce the time.
“Hain’t nothin’,” Billy replied carelessly, “’Sides, you can get it back for me with those so-called profits.”
———
Logan left Billy’s more convinced than ever that his plan would not fail. He was anxious to get it in motion, and yet Billy had demanded much more preliminary work than Logan had anticipated. It was going to take considerably longer to come to fruition than he had at first thought. But the first order of business was to drop by to see how Skittles was getting on.
He knocked on the door several times, but there was no answer. Everything seemed unusually quiet inside. He set his ear to the door but could not make
out the slightest sound. Puzzled, he slowly descended the stairs, and as he stepped out onto the landing of the first floor, he encountered the landlady.
“Ye lookin’ fer Molly an’ Skittles?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “I wanted to see how Skittles was. He wasn’t feeling too well yesterday.”
“’Tis a fact!” affirmed the lady. “An’ worse t’day. Molly took ’im off t’ the ’ospital this mornin’.”
“Hospital!” exclaimed Logan, turning pale.
He waited only long enough to find out from the woman which hospital his friend had been taken to, then flew down the remaining several stairs and out the door into a freshly falling rain.
6
A Festive Evening at Stonewycke
The lowering black clouds seemed oblivious to the fact that it was the first day of spring. Allison sent one final glance toward the sunless sky, then yanked her drapes shut. Well, it wasn’t her celebration the weather was threatening. At least she could be glad for that. Still, several of her friends would be attending, and it would have been so much nicer if the sun had shone.
The family had decided that Port Strathy was due for a holiday. Since Dorey’s birthday came so near the outbreak of spring, it provided the perfect opportunity to commemorate not only his eighty-ninth birthday and the coming of spring but also the apparent easing of the hardships that had held everyone in its grip for the last two years. The winter had been a relatively mild one and everyone was optimistic, both with regard to the fishing and the crops of the Strathy valley, that the coming spring and summer seasons would be the most productive in years.
All Allison had to say about the plans was that it was about time everyone stopped acting as if life had ended because of some depression going on in London and New York. She was glad to see that her mother was dressing up the family home in a manner that showed off their position in the best possible light. They were, after all, the Duncan clan of the celebrated Ramsey stock—the closest thing to royalty, if not in the whole of northeast Scotland, then certainly for miles around. Her mother always seemed to downplay that important fact; Allison for one was delighted that on this occasion, at least, they would put on their true colors.
The whole town had been invited, as well as three prominent families from out of the area: the Arylin-Michaels from Aberdeen, the Fairgates of Dundee, and of course the Bramfords from nearby Culden. Alec had originally proposed the event strictly for local folk, but Allison had ardently argued that if they were going to have a party, she ought to be able to invite some of her friends, and in the end her parents consented. Thus the three families, all of whom had daughters at Allison’s boarding school, were included. The fact that each of these particular friends also had dashing older brothers only slightly colored her choice. Or so she told herself, though she said nothing about this reason for her insistence to anyone.
Allison turned from the window and walked toward the mirror. She paused, smoothed out her lace dress as she took one last look, and smirked with disdain—but not without a sigh of satisfaction—that she had been able to make it turn out as well as she had. Her mother made her dress like such an absolute infant. At least she had extracted what was nearly an ironclad promise that she could wear the dress of her choice to the Bramfords’ ball next month.
She left her room and made her way down the hall. Many of the guests had already arrived and were milling about below, for, in deference to the threatening storm, the inside of the house had also been opened to the festivities. Outside, large tables had been set up where the factor, nervously glancing toward the sky every few minutes, could not seem to make up his mind whether to continue preparations for the food and drinks that would be served, or to repair inside and there make the best of it he could, despite limitations of space.
As she approached the top of the main stairway, Allison stopped at the railing and looked down. Just then she saw Olivia Fairgate’s brother entering. There couldn’t be a better moment to make my grand entrance, she thought to herself, smiling. She glided down the stairs with all the grace that could be taught in Scotland’s finest boarding schools, a noble smile on her face as if to imply, I am the queen, come to greet my subjects. And as intended, at least one set of eyes looked up admiringly.
“Why, Lord Dalmount, how good of you to come,” she said demurely, holding out her hand with feigned timidity. And true to his breeding, the young man took the soft, dainty hand and kissed it lightly.
“The estate is hardly mine—yet,” he replied in a soft voice and a chuckle, with a tinge of anxiety lest anyone should have heard Allison’s flippant remark. “You must have been talking to my sister, and she sometimes says more than is good for her.” Then, resuming a more relaxed countenance, he added, “But in the meantime, please just call me Charles.”
“Why of course, Charles. As I said, it is nice to see you.”
“I couldn’t possibly resist an invitation from Stonewycke—notwithstanding the distance. They come so seldom.”
“Yes, we are socially buried up here,” she replied. “It has always been so. And I’m afraid large estates with old-fashioned castles on them are hardly in vogue these days.”
“Going the way of the dinosaur, I suppose.”
“I can’t help but think it might be good to kill the old place off, and get on with the times. It is the thirties, you know.”
“It has a certain provincial quaintness about it, though,” he replied glancing about. And though his tone could not have been more polite, there was a certain undetectable upward tilt of his nose that indicated he shared her disdain for the ancient relics of the past. “However,” he added, “I do see what you mean. Just think what could be done if the whole thing was modernized.”
As they talked they had slowly made their way toward the large open parlor, where several tables of light refreshments had been laid.
“Will there be dancing later?” asked Dalmount as he lifted two glasses of punch from the tray of a passing servant.
“I think there is some kind of entertainment planned.”
“Real dancing?” he queried, “or will we have to don our kilts and pick up our knees to the screeching sounds of the pipes?”
Allison laughed—a very musical, grown-up, and bewitching laugh. “I’m afraid you are right there! Just as with everything else about this place, my father is a traditionalist when it comes to dancing too.”
“No Jan Garber or Fred Waring?”
She laughed again. “Don’t I wish! But I’m afraid we will be lucky to kick up our heels to a Gay Gordon.”
“No ballroom dancing where I might be favored with a spin around the floor with you?”
“Surely you jest. This little fete is for the fishermen and crofters. You don’t think any of them know how to jitterbug or waltz, do you? My father and mother are going to lead a round of The Rakes of Glasgow and De’il Amang the Tailors and maybe even The Dashing White Sergeant if they can get together enough sets of people who know it. But that’s all. Do you know any of the folk dances?”
“Never bothered to learn. You?”
“Some of them. I always liked Dee’s Dandy Dance when I was a girl, but at school we’ve been—oh, look!” exclaimed Allison in mid-sentence, getting more caught up in the festive mood of the day now that she saw some acquaintances from her own crowd in the midst of the local peasants, “there’s Eddie Bramford outside! We must say hello.” It might not exactly be the kind of party Allison would have chosen, but with Olivia’s handsome, eligible brother by her side, she could overlook that fact. She linked her arm through his, and led him out through the French doors.
The garden, protected on three sides by the walls of the house and a low hedge, was rather pleasant considering the cold borne in on the winds of the gathering storm. With old-fashioned lanterns strung overhead and garlands of flowers and draped tartans of the various clans represented all about, it could almost have been a summer afternoon. But the precariously swinging lanterns a
nd the flapping edges of the blankets served as a constant reminder that the weather would soon have its way even in this secluded spot. The children playing tag, most dressed in what seemed to Allison mere rags, had long since donned their coats.
Edward Bramford, a florid, fleshy twenty-year-old, possessed an athletic kind of attractiveness, unlike the lean, debonaire appearance of Allison’s temporary companion. He lumbered up to the approaching pair and held out a thick hand to Charles.
“Grand party, Allison,” he said with a good-natured grin of ridicule on his heavy face, glancing around knowingly at the other guests whom he considered beneath the dignity of his position.
“It is now that the gang’s all here,” Allison replied.
“I didn’t realize the local gentry was going to be so well represented,” he said with another sarcastic laugh. “Eh, Charles?”
“Well, Bramford,” said Charles, not willing to take the bait of the joke and risk losing Allison’s favor over a remark in poor taste, “will Oxford make the finals this year?”
“As long as they’ve got me on the offense.”
“Rugby, rugby, rugby!” said Allison in mock frustration. “Is that all you men can talk about?”
“I imagine you would be more at home if we took up the subject of the lastest fashions?” rejoined Charles.
“Of course. But I hardly know when something new’s out before it’s two years behind the times. It is just too frustrating being stuck in such an out-of-the-way place!”
“Now really, Miss MacNeil,” said Bramford, not to be diverted from a discussion of his true love, “what’s wrong with rugby?”
“Nothing, I suppose . . .” replied Allison, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “That is, if I understood a whit about the game.”
Thereupon Eddie Bramford launched into a description of the game detailed enough to put even an enthusiast of the game like Charles to sleep. Fortunately they were soon joined by Clifford Arylin-Michaels, the third bachelor of the little group whose presence had been secured by Allison’s contrivances with Joanna and Alec. Allison was clearly the chief attraction for each of the three, and no doubt the only reason they consented to accompany their parents to an event that would otherwise bore them past endurance with all its local, boorish color.
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