by Lewis Hockley [Percy Longhurst].
Originally published in The Magnet Library (The Amalgamated Press, Ltd.) vol.1 #18 (13 Jun 1908).
Frank Dennis in Danger!
Breathing heavily, the pair stood still eyeing each other fixedly. But there was a certain, if subtle, distinction between the bearing of each. Dennis was composed and confident; the Jew controlling his inward fury only by a severe effort, and with something of that ferocity which is born of fear.
"Are you going to open that door?" demanded Dennis.
"Not until you have given me that pothtcard," the Hebrew answered firmly.
"Very well, then; I shall open it myself."
Dennis believed in taking the initiative—in being the first to act. Already detective work was having an influence upon his character; it was giving to him a decision and a quickness of action he had previously lacked. He was developing.
"I will give you five pounds for it."
Abrams knew his physical disadvantages and the probability of coming off second best in the event of an appeal to force. But have that card he must.
"Not for fifty!" Dennis replied. "Stand aside!"
One thought Abrams gave to the vanished prize-fighter. With him to aid the recovery of that incriminating postcard would be assured; and then he hurled himself upon Frank Dennis, who had made an advance towards the door. He leaped upon the young man like a cat, snarling and spluttering, and, twining his legs around him, sought to throw him to the floor. But fierce as was his onslaught, he was no match for the athletic West-countryman.
Neither heard a sudden noise behind Dennis.
Throwing his arms around Abrams' body, Dennis, with a big effort, wrenched him away. It was no time for gentle handling, and, lifting him high in the air, the detective flung his opponent violently from him with a vigorous twist from the chest, that a more experienced wrestler than the Jew would have found it difficult to counter.
As he did so, Frank felt a sudden fierce shock on the back of his neck, as if a flash of lightning had struck him; a thousand bright, fair points of light danced before his suddenly darkened eyes, and he was hurled forward, his outstretched hands coming into contact with the opposite wall alone saving him from going down headlong on his face.
He straightened himself and swung round almost with a simultaneous movement, to find himself facing the truculent face and savagely exultant eyes of Sleeping McDonald.
The open door of a large cupboard behind the prizefighter was evidence of whence he had appeared.
* * * * *
The senior partner of "Maxennis" made his way to the house of Mrs. Brewer with the intention of having an interesting conversation with their client. There were a good many things Bob Lomax wanted to know before he unreservedly accepted the theory which he and Frank Dennis had recently assumed. That, however, it could not be so very wide of the mark he firmly believed.
The discovery of the schoolboy—Dick Martin—at Leigh as the sender of the postcards—or some of them—on which he had prided himself, was actually of very slight importance, though undoubtedly search in this direction had been the indirect means of throwing light upon the conspiracy of which his partner had an inspiration. The schoolboy's missives had been no more than a piece of juvenile mischief, but the attempt of Solly Abrams, with the prizefighter as the catspaw to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for the benefit of his Hebrew backer, was a very serious matter.
Lomax intended to find out whether Mr. Abrams was known to his client. He believed it must be so, for he did not credit Alexander McDonald with the concoction that the professional pugilist should have planned to extort money from his landlady simply from becoming aware of the continual sending of Dick Martin's cards. He wasn't clever enough, Bob decided. And that the fortuitous mention of the fact of their receipt by McDonald to Abrams had led to the conspiracy, Bob was unwilling to believe.
But when he reached Mrs. Brewer's house he ws faced with a disappointment. A slovenly-looking girl opened the door and informed him Mrs. Brewer wasn't at home, that she didn't know where she would be, and that she didn't know where she had gone. All this was communicated to Lomax in one breath, and the dirty, untidy girl made to close the door. But Bob detained her. Was Mr. McDonald in?
No, he wasn't; he'd gone out.
Had any more postcards arrived for Mrs. Brewer?
When Bob asked this question, a scared expression came into the girl's eyes, and, without answering, she again tried to shut the door, but Bob's foot was in the way.
"Don't be afraid, my good girl," he said pleasantly. "I'm acting for your mistress, you understand, and I particularly wanted to see her."
"Well you can't; she's out, I tell yer!" the girl answered, in a sulky voice, regarding Bob suspiciously.
"Then I'll leave her a note asking her to call at my office," Lomax said. "Please don't forget to give it to her."
The girl waited while Lomax wrote a short note on a slip torn from his pocket-book, nodding her head as she took the note, and Bob repeated his caution.
"You're sure there have been no postcards recently," he said carelessly, as he prepared to leave.
"No, there ain't!" And the door was banged in his face.
The recollection of his partner's visit to Mrs. Biddlecombe occurred to Bob before he was half-way out of the street, and he turned back to interview that voluble lady.
Mrs. Biddlecombe was at home; she didn't know Bob Lomax from Adam, but notwithstanding, she was pleased to give him a good deal of her valuable time, wherein she varied her relation of all the gossip of the neighbourhood, and everything concerning Mrs. Brewer that occurred to her mind, with artful questions and remarks for the purpose of finding out who was her caller, and what was his business with her friend and neighbour.
Bob left after half an hour, and he turned his steps in the direction of of Gracechurch Street. He meant to go to No. 142, Houndsditch.
He was rather disturbed in his mind as a result of his conversation with Mrs. Biddlecombe. Mrs. Brewer, so the good lady informed him, had left her house the previous day and hadn't been seen since. Mrs. Biddlecombe was sure she hadn't come home—leastways, she had called eight times to know if her neighbour had returned, and, on each occasion the girl who looked after the house—Lomax's late adversary—had answered in the negative.
Mrs. Biddlecombe was much upset about it. The girl—she was a bad lot she was sure; really rude and offensive, and Mrs. Brewer should be told of her conduct when she returned, if she ever did return—poor thing!—seeing that it was her neighbours' belief the Anarchists who wanted her money had got hold of her and done her to death—didn't know where her mistress was; at least, she said she didn't; but what was most peculiar was the fact that Mrs. Brewer hadn't communicated her intention of going away—if she had one—to her dear friend.
Mrs. Biddlecombe, arguing from this, and considering the intimacy between them, believed that her neighbour hadn't intended leaving home for long. She had gone out as she usually did every morning, had talked with her friend on the doorstep for several minutes, saying nothing about leaving home, and had never returned. To the quick-tongued lady in the house adjoining, it was painfully evident that Mrs. Brewer had come to some terrible harm; and what should it be but the threatened vengeance of the Anarchists who had been responsible for those terrible postcards?
Of these last, by the way, none had been received by Mrs. Brewer for some time; at least, not since that day when the nice young gentleman with the dog had called upon her and asked so many questions about Mrs. Brewer. Perhaps, no one ever knew, and such queer people went about nowadays, perhaps that young man himself was one of the bloodthirsty Anarchists.
Anarchists! Poor Dennis!
The salient fact was that Mrs. Brewer had been away from home for thirty-six hours, and no one knew where she was. Also, it was to be presumed, she had not any previous intention of going away.
Lomax was quick to make up his mind. He would go to 142, Houndsditch; if he were lucky he might get there before his chum had left, and between them—Lomax meant to go to any length to ascertain this, using all real and imaginary powers he possessed—force from the clever picture postcard maker a declaration of his acquaintance with Mrs. Brewer, and the plot of which she was the victim. The sudden disappearance of his client would be a strong card in his hand.
With Grip trotting obediently at his heels, Lomax walked at top pace. It did not take him very long to reach Houndsditch, and soon he was nearing the number he required. The street was curiously deserted of people; in fact the only person Bob saw near the Jew's shop was a dirty, disreputable, ill-fed and worse-clothed lad about twenty years of age, who was loafing about the doorway of a public-house a few yards away. Furtively, curiously, this individual watched Lomax as he stopped outside No. 142 and knocked.
There was no reply to the knocking, although it was repeated again and again, and Bob, placing his ear against the door, listened intently. From the deserted appearance of the dwelling, he began to think it to be unoccupied.
But it wasn't, if the muffled, dull sounds he heard indicated anything. It seemed as if someone away at the back of the shop was moving furniture about in a clumsy fashion. Once or twice Lomax thought he detected a sharper noise, like the shouting of a human voice.
He knocked again; there was no answer, and, as he stood undecided, he felt a touch on his shoulder. Facing round, he looked into the eyes of the young man who had been standing at the public-house entrance.
"Wanter git in there?"
The words were spoken eagerly; the lad's face was flushed, and he seemed to be labouring under some sudden excitement. Lomax looked at him with eyes full of surprise.
"Wanter git in there?" the lad repeated. "That's Solly Abrams's show," he added.
"Yes, I know," Lomax answered vaguely. "But—"
"He's there."
"Is he?"
"Yus; and there's a gentleman with him."
Lomax was hardly conscious of what his tongue was saying; a sound had come to him through the door—for his ears were strained to the utmost point of hearing—as if an exceedingly heavy article of furniture had been shifted. A sudden thought came to him, disagreeable and startling.
"I want to get in, and no one answers my knocking," he said hurriedly, and swiftly faced the white-faced lad again.
"P'lice?"
"No, no; I'm not the police. Confound you!"
A shade of disappointment came into the face of the lad, who was none other than Punch, with whom Frank Dennis was already acquainted.
"How can we get in?" Lomax demanded sharply.
"We can do it from the back, guv'nor; I'll show yer the way," was the unexpected answer.
Without a moment's hesitation, Punch dived into an alley-like way beside the public-house entrance, and Lomax following, they found themselves in a narrow yard, where a man was washing bottles.
"Callin' on Solly Abrams, an' his front door's locked," called out Punch to this worthy, who seemed to recognise the lad, nodded, and went on with his occupation.
The yard was long though narrow, paved with broken and sunken flagstones, and littered with the most heterogeneous collection of lumber possible to imagine. Costermongers' barrows, sound and broken, lay about together with piles of packing-cases, and boxes, crates, scrap-iron, and paper galore. Straw lay about in profusion; while in places the cases and boxes were piled higher than a tall man's head, thus forming barricades which prevented one from seeing into the windows of the several houses backing on to the yard. In justice to these, however, it may be said that such barricades were quite superfluous, since those windows which were not shuttered were so thick with the dust and dirt accumulated through many years of neglect that the glass had become perfectly opaque.
Punch dodged round the piles of rubbish, and made for a door beside a closely shuttered window.
"This way, guv'nor!" he cried, in whispered excitement. "This is Abrams' back door. Wot'll yer do? Bust it open?"
"Yes, yes!" answered Lomax.
Though his fears may have been based on a very false assumption, or rather suspicion—no less than Solomon Abrams was in some way or other responsible for the disappearance of Mrs. Brewer—Lomax felt within him a moral certainty that his chum and partner was somewhere in the dwelling of the Jew, and that he was in danger. It was absurd, of course, unreasonable; for what harm, even if he actually intended it, and that was mere supposition, could a wretched whipper-snapper, such as the Hebrew, do to an athletic, powerful fellow like Frank Dennis? And yet—the sounds he had heard! What could they mean?
Lomax didn't stop to reason; for once in his life, as will even the most level-headed and matter-of-fact individuals, he acted upon a sudden impulse. He ran at the door, at which his companion was already vainly pushing and hammering, and added his own sturdy weight and strength to the attack. Behind them the terrier was leaping and growling in a wild state of excitement.
The door stood, in spite of the violent blows dealt it; but though the clamour must have been audible to those within, no one appeared—and for good reason. Those within were too thoroughly occupied with their own concerns to be able to pay attention to any disturbance without. Frank Dennis was giving his companions all they wanted, and a bit over for luck.
And then Lomax lost patience. Looking round the yard, he caught sight of a pickaxe; snatching it up, he assaulted the door with mighty strokes. It gave at last; the lock had gone, and it was held by top and bottom bolts. Having smashed in the panels, Lomax was able to put in his arm and draw the top bolt. The bottom one held for but a little after that, and Grip in advance, Lomax and his companion rushed into a scullery, through what had been a big kitchen, but was now occupied by tables covered with stamps and dies, and so to a door. It was fast, but on the other side Lomax heard the sound of voices, and he recognised that of the Jew postcard printer.
"Downed at latht, by Motheth! Don't let him up again!"
With a drive of his heel Lomax smashed down the door and burst into the room. One glance was sufficient for him to take in the state of things, and without the slightest hesitation he acted. He had a pair of knuckle-dusters in his pocket, and these he had slipped on his hands immediately upon breaking into the house. It would go ill with either of the two men who leaped up to face him if his fist came into contact with their heads, for the Yorkshireman's blood was up, and he had no mind to spare his opponents, or to hit lightly.
Never was a room in a more terrible state of disorder; the table was overturned, as well as several chairs, and the floor was strewn with debris of all descriptions. Frank Dennis had not gone under without making a fight of it.
But he had gone under. When Lomax entered—and afterwards the Yorkshireman recalled that he had felt no surprise whatever in finding his chum where he did, or that Solly Abrams and Sleeping McDonald were the men he had to face—Dennis was lying on the floor at full length, half-stunned, his knuckles torn and bleeding, and his face smothered in blood. At his head, his face turned towards his victim's feet, his knees firmly planted on the biceps muscles of his outstretched arms, was Sandy McDonald, his clothing torn and dishevelled, and his face looking considerably the worse for wear. Beside this prone man knelt Abrams, glaring through his one seeing eye at the various objects which his busy, shaking fingers were dragging out of Dennis's pockets.
Lomax's interruption, with Punch and the growling terrier at his heels, created a sensation; it took both the scoundrels fairly by surprise. The clamour of their own fighting had deadened the sounds of the new-comer's forcible entry into the house, and not until the door of the room was driven in, were they aware of the intervention at hand.
With a fierce oath, McDonald leaped to his feet; he had recognised Lomax, and the thin-faced lad was known to him. There was no need to ask their intentions, and he met them like an angry bull.
There was no stopping Robert Lomax's fierce onslaught; he dove straight at McDonald, and his right hand shot out with terrific force as he came within striking distance. The pugilist threw up his right arm mechanically to guard the blow, and at the same time countered with his left hand. But his guard was feeble compared with the blow it met; it robbed the stroke of somewhat of its force, but that was all. Lomax's clenched fist, with its four rings of hard steel around the fingers—the T-piece to which the rings were joined pressing into the palm of his hand, caught him fairly on the cheek, and he was hurled back as if he had been suddenly shot. Four distinct gashes were left on his face, the imprint of the knuckle-duster, and McDonald uttered a yell of pain.
It was drowned out by one even yet more shrill. Grip had seized Solly Abrams by the seat of his trousers.
Punch, on seeing that both the Jew and the prize-fighter were being well taken care of, turned his attention to Frank Dennis. While McDonald, his back against the wall, was defending himself as well as he could against Lomax's steel-ringed fists, and Abrams was hopping about the room, screaming and trying frantically to rid himself of his four-footed assailant, who hung on with a tenacity that savoured of the bulldog breed and left one in doubt of the perfect purity of his pedigree, he raised Frank into a sitting position, wiped the blood from his face, and made use of more than one of those secret artifices which cunning ringside seconds employ to reawaken life and animation in their wounded charges and nullify the effects of unconsciousness-producing blows.