Stranger at Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  Allison did not shudder on this night, however, because of the eerie tales of past evils. Or even at this moment from the cold which had now pierced to her very bones. Rather the quiver which went involuntarily through her spine as she stood looking down on the faint white-tipped waves resounding against the rocks below was from the sight of several dozen dim lights bobbing up and down in the water offshore.

  This must have been where the schooner went down, on the most hazardous stretch of coastline for miles. Growing accustomed to the darkness, she could now begin to make out lights of the rescue party on the shore as well. Now and then a muffled shout from below could be heard. But they’d have little success tonight, it seemed, with the rain and fog and high seas impairing their every effort. Turning her eyes again toward the lights from the daring fishing vessels bobbing up and down like corks in the angry waves, she thought, They must be crazy! They’ll end up in the same fix as the schooner!

  So intent was she upon the playing out of events on the water and on the shore below her that she did not hear the approach behind her until the snap of a twig revealed that she was not alone.

  She started and let out a little cry.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you, dear.”

  Composing herself quickly, almost reluctantly Allison turned. Though she was relieved, at that moment she wished the voice had belonged to almost anyone else.

  “I brought your coat,” Joanna continued. “You must be freezing.”

  “Yes . . . thank you,” replied Allison, taking the coat and slipping it over her soaked dress.

  “Dear,” Joanna began, reaching out to her daughter not only with her hand but also with the yearning tone of her voice.

  “Look!” Allison broke in with a light voice, pointing toward the sea with the arm her mother would have touched, “the schooner must have gone down off the Head.”

  “Allison,” continued her mother, not to be deterred despite her daughter’s apparent reluctance to hear her words, “forgive me for making you come tonight.”

  “You needed help,” replied Allison coolly.

  “If I had known what was going to happen . . .”

  “Mother, I’m a big girl.”

  “You left so suddenly. I thought—”

  “It looked as if you had enough help,” said the daughter quickly, “ . . . and I was curious about the wreck.”

  Joanna simply nodded, making no mention of the hurriedly forgotten coat. “Would you like to talk about what happened?”

  “I don’t see what there is to talk about, Mother. A baby died. There’s not much we can do about that. It happens all the time. But really, the conditions these people live in are deplorable.” She turned abruptly and began a brisk walk back to their car, which was waiting at the cottage.

  Joanna sighed, and followed.

  Nothing more was said about the experiences of the evening, except a passing comment on Allison’s part about her desperate need for a new party dress.

  8

  Grave Words

  The antiseptic odor stung at Logan’s nose. This bleak hospital ward gave him the chills, and he especially didn’t like seeing his friend lying between those stark white sheets. He suddenly looked so old and vulnerable.

  He approached Skittles’ bed with uncharacteristic timidity, his damp fedora in hand and an uncomfortable look on his face. He attempted a smile, but his eyes lacked their usual lively glint. The doleful effect could certainly not have been much of a comfort to the patient.

  “How are you, Skits?” Logan’s voice started to crack. It was all he could do to sound cheerful.

  “I must be a goner, lad, t’ ’ave landed in a pokey joint like this,” replied the old bookie.

  “Not a bit of it,” answered Logan, still standing stiffly while nervously fingering the rim of his hat. “These days they put folks in the hospital for every little thing. Modern medicine, you know.”

  “I s’pose time’ll tell.”

  “You’ll be out of here before tomorrow’s first race at Epsom.”

  Skittles gravely motioned his head to one side. “Get a chair, lad. I ’ave something t’ talk o’er with you.”

  Logan found a chair on the other side of the ward, carried it to Skittles’ bedside, and straddled it with his arms folded across the back.

  “If you’re worried about the shop,” Logan said, “there’s no need. Billy and I will take care of it. And he swore he’d do no drinking while he was in charge.”

  “’Tis not the shop I’m worryin’ about.” Skittles paused to cough, a deep wrenching cough. “But I s’pose the shop’s got somethin’ t’ do with it,” he began once more.

  “Just tell me what it is, Skits. Anything I can do to help.”

  “Laying ’ere, a man’s got time t’ think. An’ I been wondering wot I could give t’ you after I’m gone . . .”

  Logan opened his mouth to protest, but Skittles held up a hand to quiet him. “Just listen t’ me, Logan,” he said. “I thought about leavin’ you the shop. But I just can’t bring myself to it. I’m going t’ leave it t’ Billy. He’ll do good by it, and give a percentage of the profits t’ take care of Molly—not that you wouldn’t do the same, lad. I know you would. But . . .”

  He sighed, reached for a glass of water by his bedside, and took several long swallows before continuing. “I just wouldn’t feel right bein’ responsible for keeping you in this business—”

  “What do you mean, Skits? I’m happy enough with what I do.”

  “Just let me finish.” As he spoke, Skittles’ voice was becoming more labored. Therefore Logan obeyed, albeit reluctantly. “’Tis a rotten business we’re in, Logan. Oh, maybe we ain’t villainous to the core like Morgan an’ ’is bunch. But when was the last time you made any honest money? You’re a bright boy, an’ you can make somethin’ better of yourself. There! That’s wot I wanted t’ say!”

  “I’ve made just what I want of myself,” answered Logan, both in defense of himself and to try to put his friend at ease.

  “You say that only because you don’t know nothin’ else. Get out of it!” pleaded the old man, “before it’s too late. Before you wind up goin’ the way of Chase Morgan.”

  “You can’t really think that could ever happen to me?”

  “I’ve seen many a good lad turn cold and ’ard with greed.”

  But even as he spoke Logan shook his head with a stubborn look which said he had stopped listening. Skittles exhaled a defeated sigh. “Guess it’ll take more’n the words of an ol’ reprobate like me to make you understand.”

  “Don’t go on talking like that, Skits—” Logan’s words faltered and his voice nearly broke. Steadily he bit back the rising emotion in his throat. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known and . . . well, you just better get out of that bed in a hurry, because I need you, you crotchety old windbag!”

  Logan jumped out of his chair and strode over to the window where he looked intently out as if something of great interest had suddenly caught his attention. In truth, he did not want anyone—least of all Skittles—to see the moisture filling his eyes.

  “You don’t need me, lad,” Skittles replied with deep affection. He too brushed a hand across his misting eyes, for Logan was the son of his later years that he and Molly had never had in their youth. “Though your sentiment does me old ’eart good to ’ear it, I can’t say for certain wot it tis you’re needing, but it ain’t the likes of me.”

  Logan did not reply. He knew his voice would betray him.

  Silence filled the room for a few moments, each of the men struggling to maintain the long-practiced street tradition of keeping emotions well buried. When Logan again felt certain of his control, he turned and walked back to the bed.

  “I almost forgot,” he said, forcing a light casual tone into his words as he took the checkered cap from his pocket. “I got your hat back for you.” He held it out and Skittles took it, new tears rising in his weary eyes at the sight.

  “I figu
red you might be needing it soon,” Logan added.

  “Molly bought this for me ten years ago,” the old man said tenderly, “to replace one just like it I lost in a—you might say in a little skirmish at Ascot. I only take it off to sleep.”

  He lay contemplating the cap for a minute, then held it back out to Logan.

  “All I do in this place is sleep. ’Ere, Logan. Would you take care of the cap for me . . . until I need it again?”

  Logan said nothing.

  He reached forward, clutched the cap in his hand, and turned to leave the room.

  “You’ll think about it, lad . . . wot I said?” Skittles called out after him.

  Logan stopped, turned, looked one last time at his friend where he lay, then nodded. “Yeah, Skits,” he said. “Promise.”

  9

  To Catch a Thief

  Logan spent the remainder of the day in consultation with Billy. The next two days were devoted to train rides, some long, some short, to various towns on the outskirts of the city. Each time he returned with several packages which he carried to a dirty one-room flat he had rented in a tenement across town from his own place.

  With rising impatience to get on with the plan, Logan next submitted to Billy’s habit of practicing with “dry runs” until everything was timed to perfection.

  “There can’t be no hitches!” Billy kept saying. “Morgan’s no blimey pigeon. One whiff of a setup, Logan, an’ we’re dead men!”

  “Why can’t I just go into his place, spread a few bills around, talk it up, boast a little about how I can get as many as I need, drink a few pints, and wait for Morgan to make a move on me?”

  “Oh, he’d make a move on you all right!” replied Billy mockingly. “He’d move you right int’ the Thames in a lead box! Think, man! He’d see through a ruse like that five minutes after you walked in the door. We gots to make ’im come to you. The man’s got to want that plate so bad that he’s taken the bait before he e’er set ’is eyes on you. That’s the key to any con, lad. Hain’t Skits taught you nothin’? We gots to make ’im want to believe in those plates! Then he’s eating out of our ’ands, not us out of ’is.”

  “And just how do you propose to manage such a thing?”

  “That’s where the rest of the boys come in. We spread a few bills round town. Discreetly. Slowly. None of your wild, fool shenanigans. We let the news of a new plate sift slowly along the grapevine. We gradually connect you with the ’earsay. Very subtle. So’s no one gets the idea we’re lookin’ for a deal. An’ we keep spreadin’ bills, throwing in a few bad ’uns so the thing gets talked up.”

  “But how long’s all that going to take, Billy?”

  “Doesn’t matter how long. Mebbe a week or two, mebbe six months.”

  “Six months!”

  “Settle down, Logan. Patience is the most important ingredient to this scheme. You ’ave to wait it out, dangling the hook e’er so gently, waitin’ for Morgan t’ get ’ungrier and ’ungrier. If we make a move before he’s ready, like I said before—we’re dead men! But if we can wait ’im out—no matter how long it takes—then when he pounces, we’ll be ready t’ reel ’im in. By then we gots ’im where we want ’im. He’ll want to believe so bad we can slip in an amateur’s plate and he’ll jump at it. An’ we hain’t going’ t’ stick no amateur plate in front o’ his nose. No siree! When Morgan’s moment comes, he’s goin’ t’ be feastin’ his eyes on the most perfect plate I ever made. ’Course, we’ll make sure the light in the place hain’t too good, just in case. But e’en in broad daylight I could ’ardly tell my plate from the real one. No, Logan, if we bide our time and don’t rush ’im, he’ll come to you. You can be sure of that.”

  “And what do I do in the meantime?”

  “You’ll do just as I tell you,” replied Billy. “I’ll get the boys t’ put the word out, real casual-like. And you just ’ave a good time. Don’t go into Morgan’s place at first. Then mebbe once or twice, then disappear for a few days. And don’t say nothin’! You just keep your young mouth shut, do you understand? You don’t do no talkin’ till Morgan comes t’ you. And then you say only what I tell you!”

  The bait took three weeks to take. But then, exactly as Billy had predicted, it was Morgan who initiated a move in their direction. Logan had not been in Morgan’s plush nightclub pub in four days. Billy had begun to step up the tempo and warned him to stay away. But by this time he had well coached his young protegé in what to say, for the bite on the part of Morgan could come at any time, he said.

  It came about ten o’clock one evening as Logan was leaving The Purple Pig pub some three blocks away. Without even a word, he was suddenly sandwiched between two very large and very insistent colleagues of Morgan’s who brusquely thrust him into the backseat of a waiting limousine. In less than five minutes, without a word having yet been spoken, he was escorted into the big man’s office.

  He had never before even seen the underworld hoodlum, and was momentarily stunned to see that he was a short man—probably no more than five foot six. Though solidly built, he had a thick appearance with little sign of a neck, and a round face that might have lent a boyish air to his overall look had it not been for his dark, glaring eyes.

  Logan glanced around quickly, taking stock of his surroundings. The room in which he found himself certainly was impressive, giving every indication that Morgan’s brief sojourn in the British Isles had been highly profitable thus far. Though Logan’s trademark on the streets of London was his smooth tongue, his talents were stretched to their limits before the wary American gangster. And Morgan’s first words immediately dispelled any further thought of his boyish face. He was anything but a neophyte.

  “I understand you got a five-pound plate,” he demanded.

  “Maybe I have . . . maybe not,” answered Logan, as per Billy’s instructions.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Mr. Logan!” snapped Morgan. “For twenty pounds I can have you dropped in the river!”

  Just what Billy said he’d do! thought Logan to himself. First a vain, angry outburst, followed by a threat. “If he does that,” Billy had said, “he’s playing right into our ’ands!”

  “Now, Mr. Logan, is the plate for sale?”

  “Stall him a little longer,” were Billy’s instructions. “Take it cautiously. But string him along until it begins to look dangerous.”

  “Say, who are you?” Logan replied, avoiding the question.

  “Who I am is none of your concern. Who I am is the man who just asked you a question. Now tell me, is—”

  “And how do you know my name?”

  Suddenly Morgan’s fist slammed down on his desk and he jumped to his feet.

  “You interrupt me again, Logan!” he shouted, “and I’ll . . .” Apparently he thought better of himself. He paused, then continued. “Look. I know all about you. I’ve had you followed for a week. I know your name, where you drink, how badly you gamble, and where you live. And I also know about the plate. I’ve never heard of you. You look like a punk. But they say it’s the best plate ever seen in this town, and I want it. Do you understand? Now, I’m only going to ask you nice one more time—is the plate for sale?”

  “When he gives you no more choices and ’as your back to the wall, then give ’im a little more line. Not much. Just enough for us to ’ang ’im with.” Okay, Billy, thought Logan, I think this is it!

  “I . . . I hadn’t really thought of selling it. I suppose I could think—”

  “I don’t want you to think about it. I want you to do it!” replied Morgan angrily. “Don’t you understand, you little creep of a street punk? You either sell me the plate or I’ll kill you. If you do it my way, I just might let you live. What do you say to two thousand pounds?”

  Logan laughed outright. “Show a cocky confidence,” Billy had said. “He’ll ’ate you for it. But it just may save your life at the same time. No con man likes a wimp. Stand up to ’im. It’s the only way to keep ’im honest at a dishonest game. Laugh at ’i
s first offer. He’ll go at least twice as ’igh, maybe even more.”

  “Two thousand!” he repeated. “The plate’s worth at least ten.”

  “Ten thousand! What kind of a fool do you take me for?”

  “Perfect five-pound notes. And you want it for a song?”

  “No note’s perfect!”

  “And maybe mine aren’t, either. But they’re good enough to pass off as the real thing. And that’s really all that matters, isn’t it now, mate?”

  “I’ll give you three thousand.”

  “And maybe I’ll just keep it. Why should I give away the golden goose for t’pence? I still ain’t said the plate’s for sale.”

  “And I said it is for sale!” replied Morgan, growing heated once more. “Now you look, Mr. Logan. I’ll give you five thousand pounds for the blasted thing. One more word out of you and we’ll put you out of your misery tonight and ransack your flat till we find it.”

  “You won’t find it there, mate,” laughed Logan.

  “Then maybe we’ll kill you just for the fun of it and make our own plate. Now, five thousand it is. Take it, or take your last look around at this world.”

  “And how do I know you’ll keep your part of the bargain?”

  “You don’t. But you got no choice, kid. But don’t worry. I don’t want the word out that Chase Morgan welches on his deals. Too many people know about you already. You’re safe. That is, unless you try anything stupid!”

  Logan was summarily dismissed with a wave of Morgan’s hand and found himself brusquely escorted through the front of the club and shoved out the door with a curt, “Mr. Morgan’ll be in touch!” from one of Morgan’s bouncers.