by Peter Baron
“Why?”
“Dunno. I get hunches sometimes and I’ve got one now,” said Keating. “Ask me what a hunch is.”
“I know what it is, but not why you’ve got one,” she replied. “Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t stay with Ian?”
“I can give you three.”
“And they are?”
He ticked them off on his fingers.
“One, Clem Wade. East side gunman and con. man. Con. man,” he explained, “is Yankee for confidence man.”
“I know. Is Clem really Larry’s brother?”
“They had the same mother,” he answered humorously. “Two, Alice Kate Greer. Years ago she ran a ‘house’ till we made it too hot for her. Then she became refined and took to baby farming with her husband, ‘Flash’ Sam Greer. After he left her she became housekeeper to two old gentlemen with fatal results to the two old gentlemen. Makes you think, eh?”
“It doesn’t seem possible,” she admitted. “And the third?”
“Third what?”
“Reason.”
“Because I ask you to,” he answered, “and I know what I’m talking about. That house is as dangerous for you as it is for me. A few minutes ago you were talking to a thug who’d shed no tears if he heard the ‘Dead March’ from ‘Saul’ played at my funeral. He’s the kind of plug ugly who’d stop robbing a bank to come and lay a wreath on my grave. Ask me what a plug ugly is.”
“I know. I’m one of those good little girls who reads her Edgar Wallace.”
“I seem to have heard that name somewhere,” Keating ruminated. “Well, think it over, girlie.”
But her decision remained unalterable.
They walked back to the car in the dusk and she backed out and drove back to the road without speaking.
Halfway home she pulled up suddenly as a figure stepped out into the road. It was she who recognized Clem first, but he paid little attention to Her. Walking up to the car he proffered a buff envelope to Keating.
“This came after you left.”
“Never thought you’d be doing me a good turn, Clem,” chaffed Keating.
“P’raps I’m not.”
Keating slit the envelope and his lips twisted in a smile as he read.
“All right, Barbara,” he said. “Start the procession again.”
She slipped in the clutch and moved past the scowling Clem. As she drove, Keating spread the telegram for her to read.
“‘Keep out of this Keating’,” she read wonderingly.
“‘Two people can’t play the same game when one of them happens to be the Poacher.’”
She gave her attention to the road again.
“What’s it mean?” she demanded. “Is he implying that you’re a crook?”
“No, translated from the celebrated doggerel of the underworld it means that I’m poaching on his preserves. So I am, but with a different object. It is not worthwhile trying to trace this. I should probably find that it had been delivered by a grubby urchin who was paid to do so, and who could not describe the man who gave it to him.”
He folded the telegram carefully.
“I’ve got seventy-three of these little souvenirs,” he said. “Thirty-two of the people who wrote them are either dead or in prison.”
“And the others?”
“Thirty-six of them have served their sentences and are out again planning more threats. Two of the remaining five that I didn’t get are Larry Wade and Ian Teyst. There’s time yet.”
He spoke little after that and left her at the gate of the lodge.
As she left the garage after putting her car away, Clem Wade came up the drive and halted beside her.
“Dat cop will sure get his fer keeps one day,” he said cryptically and passed on.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Eight weeks in the peaceful atmosphere of Ian’s home had worked wonders with Barbara. On this particular morning, seated opposite her uncle at breakfast she looked the personification of health. The shadows had gone from beneath her eyes, and her hair, the surest indication of the state of the owner’s nerves, shone like burnished metal.
All this Ian noticed vaguely but his mind was occupied with other things. The morning marked an epoch in each of their lives, yet neither of them referred to the thing that was uppermost in their minds.
Two hours ago, at eight o’clock, Dennis Teyst had looked his last on the bright sun that shone in on the large room in which they sat. Looked on it from within the walls of Wandsworth Jail.
Barbara had glanced once at the paper and laid it aside and Ian, although his interest was deeper than hers, had ostentatiously studied the picture page. He commented only on the feat of a well-known cricketer in a recent match, but his thoughts were elsewhere. For him the photograph of Dennis Teyst and the accompanying paragraph had another significance. At least one part of it. The phrase still revolved in his head.
“The execution this morning at Wandsworth Jail, is a sequel to the amazing gun duel between the murderer and Inspector Keating of Scotland Yard, which resulted in the arrest of Dennis Teyst in the rooms of Mr. Lawrence Wade.”
In the flat of Larry Wade! To Ian that made several things clear that before had been obscure. Since the arrest of his brother, Ian had wondered a lot about the present location of the blue slip that Dennis had received from the Colonel. Now he speculated no longer. He was willing to wager that Mr. Lawrence Wade knew something of its whereabouts.
He was so preoccupied that Barbara’s exit passed unnoticed. She herself was not sorry to escape. The strain of trying to appear natural when the shadow of Dennis’s death lay so close, was too great.
She stepped out into the garden with a sense of freedom. Nature seemed to be doing its best to make her forget and the old adage “where every prospect pleases and only man is vile,” flashed into her mind. Very aptly. At that moment the “vileness” made itself apparent in the form of Clem Wade.
She was not aware of his presence until a hearty voice behind her announced that it was a “fine morning, sister.”
“It is,” she agreed, and speculated idly on what form this morning’s attack would take. She was not unaware that to quote Clem’s crude but forceful remark, “he had fallen good and hard for her.” She knew it and, womanlike, was amused. Not flattered, but probably not entirely indifferent. No woman scorns a capture, however mean, but this morning she could have faced with equanimity the loss of at least one devoted slave. Which was unfortunate because Clem was in an amorous mood.
“De sort of morning,” he said, elaborating his earlier theory, “dat makes youse feel kinda good to live.”
“It does.”
“Makes youse feel kind of sentimental.”
Barbara reversed the formula tactfully.
“Does it?”
“Sure does,” he replied, conscious that the atmosphere was not too cordial, but persevering. “Say I bin thinking. Couldn’t we get together a bit more?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” she laughed and edged away. Clem was uncomfortably close and, unless she was a poor judge of his kind, approaching the mauling stage.
“You’n me togedder would be aces,” Clem pursued. “Quit stalling kid. It’s us for de little gay home in de West End. Youse only gotta say de wurd. It’s all right wid me. I don’t pay no attention to youse trailing dat poor goob Keating on a string. A swell dame like youse wouldn’t have no truck wid a low hick like dat.”
Nevertheless despite the assertion there was something anxious in his tone.
Barbara smiled. “I’m honored by your offer—it is an offer, isn’t it Clem? I thought so, but at the same time I’m sorry. I’ve other uses for my freedom than giving it up. If it’s any pleasure to you to know it, Inspector Keating is hardly a rival, but in any case I don’t think we’ll discuss that.”
“Is zat so? Well I got another think coming. Say wise me up, girlie. What’s dat ‘bull’ trailing youse for?”
Barbara’s temper was beginning to wear
a little thin at the edges. She faced Clem squarely.
“Please get it out of your head that I’m a modern Helen of Troy,” she said firmly, “and please stop casting yourself for the role of Paris.”
As far as Clem was concerned she might have been speaking German, and there is little doubt that he would have renewed his proposal had not Ian appeared on the steps at that moment.
“Clem,” he called, and the ardent suitor scowled.
“Dat feller’s got no breedin’,” he explained disgustedly. “Can’t a lady and genmen get togeder widout half England hornin’ in? Dere’s me and you——”
“Clem!”
A little more peremptorily and with better results. Clem touched the cap which had never left his head, in a perfunctory salute and slouched away. Ian stood aside to allow him to pass and followed him into the morning room.
“Say,” said Clem aggrievedly, as he dropped into a chair.
“If any odder guy was to crab my game like youse, boss, he’d kiss de canvas quick.”
“Get this Clem,” Ian retorted evenly. “If you’re thinking of founding a dynasty of little gun men pick on someone else for your soul-mate. Now sit tight and listen. See this?” He passed the paper he had been reading to his disgruntled henchman, and Clem after a struggle managed to master the paragraph Ian had indicated.
He whistled his appreciation.
“So dat’s where Dennis was croaked, Boss.”
“Your masterly intuition,” yawned Ian and was rewarded with a scowl.
“Oh, can de clever stuff, boss, what’s de graft? Where’ll we come in on de deal?”
“This afternoon you’re going to town and you’re going to watch Larry’s place.”
“Sure, dat’s all right wid me.”
“Watch your chance and then overhaul the flat.”
“Sure,” said Clem patiently, “but what’s de boy gonna lose?”
“A strip of paper like that,” Ian replied, handing the other the strip that he had received from the Colonel.
“Don’t make sense to me,” grunted Clem. “Where’ll I look boss?”
“Everywhere. Assuming you get into the flat. You won’t get that far if you park yourself on the doorstep and wait till Larry recognizes you. He’d do it quicker than anyone.”
“Nix on dat. De guy ain’t born what looks less innercent dan me when I’m on de job.”
Ian wasn’t so sure. “I should advise you to fix your face up so that your own mother wouldn’t recognize it. I don’t suppose she wants to now, anyhow.”
“Quit riding me, boss,” Clem pleaded. “How do I get in? Youse got a master key?”
“No, send Larry a card and he’ll leave the door open for you!”
Clem grinned weakly, “All right. I knows when I’m beat. I busts de lock, eh?”
Ian nodded. “And mind your step. There’s a certain Mr. Brown of ‘Whitehall, who has practically taken up his home in the drive. It would be as well to lose him when you get to town.”
“Dat guy gives me de heebies,” Clem derided. “He’s de Yard’s worst man and just nacherally dumber than anything we got at Headquarters on de odder side.”
Ian smiled. “Get going then.”
“Sure,” agreed Clem and retired.
He left the house directly after lunch and Detective Sergeant Brown observing the leisurely approach of a gentleman wearing a tweed cap, loose Raglan coat and furthermore a pair of golf hose of particularly pronounced pattern, very nearly dismissed him as one of the sporting set that lived nearby. Very nearly, but not quite.
He turned leisurely and followed.
Clem would have had no regrets at foregoing the society of the watchful if nonchalant Mr. Brown of Whitehall, but the latter’s presence in no way disturbed the American.
He was more than surprised and not a little amused when the Yard man entered the same carriage, and even dallied with the idea of chaffing the other on the obvious way in which he carried out his job.
At Cannon Street Brown was still following behind and Clem amused himself by crossing from side to side to see how often the Yard man would follow him.
Tiring at length of this he signaled a passing taxi and ordered the man to drive to the Barbican, giving him half a crown beforehand.
“Dere’s a guy follering me,” he said meaningly. “A gunman, and I reckon on shaking him between here and de Barbican. If you miss me on de journey keep right on. Get me?”
“This other bloke ain’t a cop is ‘e?” the cabman asked dubiously.
“No, but I am,” said Clem. “Ever heard of ‘Bull’ Dugan of Headquarters?”
“Meaning the Yard?”
“No. New York.” Clem showed a badge formerly the property of Captain Dugan of the New York Police, and jumped into the taxi. As they moved forward he peered through the little square of mica at the back of the cab and with undisguised amusement watched Brown charter a cab and continue the pursuit.
Clem chuckled pleasantly and leaning back in his seat proceeded to make a few necessary changes in his appearance. Stripping off the Raglan coat he disclosed a pair of legs covered, not by plus fours as Brown had supposed from the loud stockings, but by ordinary gray trousers—neatly rolled up above the knees—which he unfastened and shook down. His coat and waistcoat, hitherto concealed, were of the same suit. From the pocket of the Raglan he produced a rolled up trilby and hastily restoring it to its normal shape he set it on his head and stuffed the tweed cap into a pocket. Finally he turned the Raglan inside out and it became a smart blue trench coat. From an inside pocket he took a newspaper and made a small slit in it.
His preparations complete he looked out cautiously and saw that they were in Aldersgate Street, and that Brown’s taxi was still following about fifty yards in the rear.
Waiting until his own taxi turned into the Barbican, Clem swiftly slipped out on to the running board, slammed the door and dropped off.
A few seconds later Brown’s taxi shot by, its occupant entirely unaware of the fact that the man in gray lounging on the pavement watching his passage through a slit in the newspaper he held, was the man he was pursuing.
As Brown’s taxi vanished, Clem lowered his paper, folded it carefully, turned into Angel Crescent and made for Lou Staam’s junk shop. He had barely entered when old Lou himself shambled forth from the dark counter at the back of the shop and peered at his customer.
“Vun of de poys, hein?” he purred. “Vat is it you vants, Clem?”
“Say son, c’n youse fix me up so’s me own sister wouldn’t spot me?”
Lou chuckled. “Vat shall it be? I haf de complede blind man outfit, hein?”
He rummaged about and produced an eye shade, a tin mug, and a green card bearing the legend, “TOTALLY BLIND.”
“I let you have dese for ten shillun only. Seexpence de mug, seexpence de card and a shillun de eye shade. And seven and seex de leetle dog. Eees license costs dat. If you wait, I get heem.”
“Nix on dat,” grinned Clem. “I may have to move me quick and I ain’t gettin’ dis child mixed up wid a hound’s leash.”
Lou accepted the rebuff equably and produced a battered violin.
“You play deese? I let heem out cheap. Fifteen shillun——”
“Nix, I ain’t no tune pedlar,” grunted Clem. “ ‘Sides you gotta stand at dat job.”
“You don’ like to stand, hein? I haf de bath chair wid de leetle toy balloons.”
“Me? I’d sure look fine and dandy trailin’ a bath chair wid half de Yard after me.”
Lou paused thoughtfully.
“De barrel organ is out,” he ruminated. “Chorley de Nose have heem. Vy not de pavemen’ arris’ hein?” He chuckled delightedly. “De very ting. You don’ like to stand, hein?
Good, you seet. Very easy—just seet and wait for de money to roll in. Pleasure wid profit.”
“Dat’s all right,” Clem nodded, “but I ain’t no paint slinger, Lou.”
“Nor is any of de poys,” grinned
the old man. “I lease de pictures out to dem at a shillun a time and seexpence de bag of chalks. You can draw a loaf, yes?”
“Sure, I could draw dat.”
“Fine. Den all you got to do is to put onnemeath it, ‘Easy to draw, but hard to get,’ and dere you are.”
Still chuckling he retired behind the counter to emerge with a pile of fair sized pictures, all of them battered remnants of what had never been masterpieces of art.
“Here dey are der peauties,” he chuckled. “De Prime Meenister. Very life-like. Oh, very good. You can’t have de Prince of Wales. Dot vun’s out. Very popular. All de ladies geeve tuppence for heen. Only geeve a penny for de Prime Meenister. Still de fat ole Conservativs always geeve more for de Prime Meenister.”
Clem regarded the “peauties” with the eye of a connoisseur.
“Sure, dey’re about my mark,” he agreed. “If I was to start crayon slinging I wouldn’t do much worse. Wot’s dis dame?”
He indicated a lady with flaming red hair and a low cut green gown.
“Dat vun? Eesn’t she peautiful? Dat is an old master. Genuine. Portrait of a lady. Have dat one Clem, dat’s got sex appeal.”
Clem grunted.
“Will a Britisher fall for dat?”
“He vill. You don’ know heem like I do. The Eenglish genelman, blast heem, is ver’ reserved in good society, but der beast is dere. Else vy is Piccadilly so full of pretty ladies and plain clothes’ polis at nights?”
Clem grinned again, made a hasty selection, and examined the piece of sacking that contained the chalk.
“Say Lou,” he burst out, “dis set ain’t got no green crayon and de dame’s wearing a green cover-me-up. How’s dat?”
Lou with many apologies repaired the error.
“Now vith a leetle brown oil, vich vash off and vich cost twopence and de eyeshade vich cost a shillun, no one know you. I charge five shillun for de five pictures and five shillun for deposit. Must protect de props, Clem. De chalk I throw in. De ole cloze, eef you vant dem, is extra.”
When Clem emerged he was clad in the disreputable remnants of three suits, a dirty choker and a greasy hat that shaded his eyes, one of which was covered by an eye shade. His normally rather pale face had turned several shades darker and a little penciling of the eyebrows and adept shadowing under the eyes had transformed his face. Boarding a ‘bus, he made his way to Oxford Street and descended.