by Lewis Hockley [Percy Longhurst].
Originally published in The Magnet Library (The Amalgamated Press, Ltd.) vol.1 #16 (30 May 1908).
A New Theory.
"You're a bit nearer the truth than you fancy," Dennis answered; and he gave a recital of tho events resulting from his visit to the boxing-hall.
"Well, all this is interesting," observed Lomax; "but how does it help us?"
"That's what I haven't quite determined; perhaps you can assist. Didn't you tell me of a chap named Abrams—
Solomon Abrams."
"Yes, the picture postcard chap I met in the train. What of him?"
"Well, I learned that he knows McDonald; that he's the man's principal backer in his fights. He was with him last night."
"Phew-w-w-w!" Lomax whistled to himself for quite a long while. "This is something, lad. Now, what does it
mean? How d'you know it was he?"
"This fellow who came to my assistance told me. He knows them well."
Dennis sketched a short description of the individual in question, and Lomax nodded.
"That's the man," he agreed. "Now, what— Oh, confound this, Frank; we're getting worse and worse! The further we go on tho more complicated things become. What is your ides?"
"I can't make it out at all," Dennis confessed, "Do you see how this man Abrams could be connected in any way with the sending of the cards?"
"Why, what on earth has put that idea—— Hallo! Stop—why, man alive, is it possible? Have you stumbled on the
answer to it?". And Lomax, for once in his life really excited, got up and stamped about the room.
"What is it, Bob?" his partner called out; and Lomax came and sat down, again.
"It seems a mad-headed idea, but—well, truth's stranger than fiction, and it might be so. Here, the cards come from Leigh—Leigh's one of the places this Abrams is always going to."
"Just so!"
"He knows the school where this kid Martin is; probably knows the boy; anyway, he's been warned away from the school. Suppose he'd happened on, quite by chance, what silly trick that kid was playing, and—"
"McDonald knows him, lodges in Mrs. Brewer's house, and must have known of the cards; the forged ones were all amongst the last received; McDonald might have told him," interposed Dennis.
"Yes; and Abrams conceived the idea of turning it to his own profit—and he and McDonald between them. By Jove, it might be! And yet— The coincidences are alarmingly close. The Jew's a sharp beggar; given a confederate, the game wouldn't be so hard to carry out. Between them, the precious pair might reckon on terrifying our client into parting with her money. Is that your idea, Frank?"
"I tell you I didn't have any clear sort of idea; but those several things seemed to hang together in some way, and a connection between them was not unlikely. But how—"
"Here, let's tackle the job in a logical fashion," interrupted Lomax. "Now, this is where we stand—Abrams and McDonald are pals, the latter lives in the house of the woman who has received the threatening postcards. Some of the postcards are detected to be forgeries, the rest were written by a schoolboy at Leigh, and Leigh is one of the places Abrams visits pretty frequently. McDonald is found in possession of a postcard exactly similar to the forged ones his landlady has received. Query—how did he get hold of it? Probability is that he wrote it, if not, someone he knew did. Why? To send to Mrs. Brewer and frighten her into paying money. Query No. 2—Is McDonald the class of man who would be likely to hit upon such an idea as forging postcards sent by a silly kid of a boy for no other purpose than annoyance? Maybe yes, maybe no; McDonald's pal is a sharp chap, a Jew. Query No. 3, suggested—Could the Jew have evolved this idea and left the working of it to the boxing-man, so that if anything went wrong he wouldn't get himself into trouble? It is understood that the Jew is acquainted with the kid at Leigh. How does that sum up the situation, Frank?"
"That's about it," Dennis answered slowly. "Now, after accepting all this, what are we going to do?"
"Fix the connections, if any, between the Jew and the picture postcards," Lomax replied, with brisk confidence, "That's our ticket!"
"If we can do it," Dennis replied.
"Precisely," assented Lomax. "Now, I've an idea."
"Out with it!"
"Well, we've shown McDonald his lost postcard, and the sight of it don't do him a bit of good—he's scared and furious. Why not show that same card to Mr. Solly Abrams, and see what effect it has on him?"
"Well, that's not so bad. If he's a sharp chap, he'll act as if he'd never seen it before—knows nothing about it."
"He may; or he may come to the conclusion McDonald has been playing him tricks and give himself away. He might, granting there's anything in our idea, want to get hold of that card."
"He probably would," Lomax said. "And, needless to say, he wouldn't get it; and, by the way, if one of us could see Mrs. Brewer, I reckon it wouldn't be lost time to go and have a chat with her. What d'you say? Will you go?"
"And you?" asked Dennis.
"I'll go and see our friend Abrams at his Houndsditch address."
"Suppose I were to go see him," suggested Dennis.
"Why?"
"Well, if McDonald were at Mrs. Brewer's house when I arrived, and he saw me, there might be trouble. Abrams doesn't know me."
"H'm—perhaps! He saw you last night, though, so you say, outside Wonderland," Lomax objected.
Yes; but he probably wouldn't recognise me again."
"And you mean me to interview our client?"
"If you wouldn't mind."
"But McDonald knows me also; didn't he see me here when he called in answer to our letter?"
"Confound it! So he did! I'd forgotten that."
Ultimately it was agreed that Dennis's suggestion should be carried into effect. If McDonald were at Mrs. Brewer's house there was less likelihood of trouble if he saw Lomax rather than Dennis, against whom, under the circumstances of the previous evening, he would be likely to bear the stronger animus.
While this conversation was going on there was taking place in a dark, little room, half parlour, half office, on the ground floor of No. 142, Houndsditch, a dialogue, the report of which would have been an agreeable confirmation to "Maxennis" that their theory of the postcard mystery was not so wild and far-fetched as it appeared when discussed in cold blood.
In this room were seated two men, one of whom, despite the temporarily-altered condition of his features, would have been recognised by anyone who had seen him once before as Sleeping Sandy, while his companion was the black-eyed, black-haired, cunning-looking Hebrew gentleman who was a picture postcard maker by profession, a professional backer of horses, fighting men, and whippets, by way of amusement—and profit—and one or two other things besides strictly for the latter consideration.
The conversation was not proceeding on the most amicable lines. The professional boxer's expression was one of sulky, angry sullenness, that of the Jew of keen annoyance and disappointment. He eyed the pugilist with something of the air with which a gamekeeper or hunter regards a hound which, by the committal of some egregious error, has occasioned his master a serious loss.
"Vat the dickenth d'ye mean by that thow of yourth latht night?" Mr. Abrams demanded. He was more than a little excited, and his style of speech and manner were not as careful and correct as when he conversed with Robert Lomax on the journey towards Leigh.
"I couldn't help it!" growled the pugilist.
"Couldn't help it? D'ye know that you've lotht me clothe on a hundred quid? Ninety-five golden sovereignth! Fighting worth than at thcool, and then telling me you couldn't help it! Vet d'ye mean?"
"I tell yer I couldn't help it, guv'nor!" repeated McDonald sullenly. "Straight, I couldn't! I c'd've bashed that chap into the middle o' next week, and I c'dn't!"
"You didn't, you mean. Vat'h the meaning of it—eh? Here, I've put down my money for you to lick him, and then you go an' play me a trick like thith!"
Mr. Abrams' little eyes sparkled dangerously; he looked positively wicked.
"It's a croth," he began—"If you thold that fight—"
McDonald's fist clenched, and he banged it hard on the table.
"I ain't never sold a fight in my life!" he cried loudly; "I've allus fought straight an' square; an' no man's ever said as I ain't—it wouldn't pay him to! Don't yer say that about me, guv'nor, or—"
He looked threateningly across the table whereat the precious pair were seated.
"I thall thay just vat I think," retorted Abrams, in no way dismayed by this show of violence. "If you've fought a croth—and I'll thoon find out if you have or not—why—why—blow me! I'll have you in gaol ath thoon ath look at you. I don't lothemy money for nothin', I can tell you!"
"Don't yer talk to me about gaol; I knows a lot that'd send other people to gaol along o' me!" the prizefighter said darkly. "Yer lost yer money, I know, but I've lost the fight. Yer can go an' make some more easily, yer knows plenty o' ways o' doin' it, but what's goin' to happen to me now? An' all because o' that— S'help me! I'd ha' licked that blessed African chap with one 'and, I'd ha' licked killed 'im!"
"Vell, vhy didn't ye?" demanded the Jew.
"Becos' I couldn't!" growled the man, with a quick return to his former sullenness. "An' now I've lost th' match; put up a blessed fight like a fifth-rater—a blessed mug; an' what's people goin' to say about me now? It makes me fair wild! I c'd've killed 'im—killed 'im! And s'help me, I will kill 'im nex' time! Wot did yer want to interfere for?"
"Vat ith it you're talking' about?" cried the Jew. "Thoemth to me you're crathy. Kill who? Vhy didn't you kill him when you had him in the ring? Vath the good o' talkin' about it now? You've lotht!"
"I know it; don't yer keep on tellin' me!" And again the man's anger blazed out.
Brute as he may have been, McDonald had a certain pride in himself, pride in his strength, the ferocious skill and courage that had won him the reputation he valued so greatly, and which had been so blackened, almost wiped out altogether as he believed, by his last inglorious display.
He had spoken the truth; he was a fair fighter: fair in that he always did his best, though he would employ every trick and artifice that the conditions governing his means of livelihood would permit, to get the better of his adversaries. He had never fought a "cross" or faked fight. He was strictly honest according to his lights; and to have it suggested to him—and he knew there were others who would make the same insinuations behind his back—by the man at the table, the man whose money had been lost by his defeat, that he had tricked him by selling the fight, by permitting himself to be beaten, aroused all the wounded vanity in the man's heart—and he had a more than average share of it—and turned his sullen anger to white-hot passion.
"Vell, vhy didn't you lick him?" demanded Abrams again.
"I tell yer I couldn't. I ought to, I could, but I didn't!"
"Tho it appeared; but why?" sneered the Jew.
"Becos'—becos'— 'Ere, blow me! Becos'"—and again his heavy fist smote the table—"becos' of yerself! Yer've only got yerself to blame becos' I lost. If it hadn't been for you an' that game yer let me into, I'd ha' beat that bloke last night; beat 'im 'ollow, an' then yer wouldn't ha' lost yer money, an' I'd still 'ave the championship."
Solomon Abrams looked surprised; he didn't understand the pugilist's outburst in the least.
"Vat ith it you're talking about?" he asked. "Hath lothing th' fight made yer loths yer thentheth?"
McDonald's little eyes gleamed furiously at the reminder.
"No it ain't," he retorted. "An' it's the truth. Yer knows very well wot I'm talking' about, though yer does seem so blessed innocent!"
"I don't!"
"Why, then, that blessed business o' old Mrs. Brewer's? It was that, yer an' that, wot lost me last night's fight!"
"Who're you getting at? You're drunk!" rejoined the Jew.
"No, I ain't; it's truth. If it 'adn't a-been for that, I'd ha' been as right as rain. I wouldn't've been lookin' all round th' blessed 'all, wonderin' where was the coppers that was goin' to nab me. 'Ow can a man fight when 'e's expectin' to be lagged at the end of it!"
"You're crathy!" repeated Abrams, with weary impatience. "How vath you going to be lagged? Vat'd the polithe got to do with you? Why would they interfere?"
"Becos' that feller was there," McDonald retorted. "I saw 'im in the 'all, an' e' saw me. An' after wot 'ad taken place, 'ow c'd I fight?"
"Vat fellow?" demanded Abrams. He was thoroughly mystified by the man's half explanations, which were to him so much Chinese. He did begin to understand that McDonald had been put off his game during the fight; that something had taken place which had prevented the man from fighting as he always did, and so doing himself justice. Whatever it was, it had caused him to be beaten, and his backer to lose his money. Abrams interest and curiosity were awakened.