by Lewis Hockley [Percy Longhurst].
Originally published in The Magnet Library (The Amalgamated Press, Ltd.) vol.1 #12 (02 May 1908).
Dennis's Fine Theory is Revealed.
"Oh, cut it short, guv'nor!" McDonald interrupted. "What is it you're getting at?" he went on. "I thought you'd something to tell me—something to my advantage, so your letter said! What is it? I ain't got all day ter waste listenin' to yer chin-waggin'!"
The boxer's face had taken on a disagreeable and sulky expression, his tone was just a trifle defiant.
"Say what yer've got to say, it yer have got anything, and I'll be off!" he added.
"There is no need for you to be hasty." Lomax said slowly. He was anxious to make time, to collect himself, and decide what he was to say. And then an idea came to him. "The fact is, Mr. McDonald," he continued, "that I am instructed by a friend of yours, or someone who knows you, and who is living in Essex, at a little place called Leigh-on-Sea—"
"Don't know no one living at Leigh, and ain't got no friends there!" interrupted the pugilist, with what appeared to be quite unnecessary violence, and quite uncalled for precipitancy.
"No? Well, that's odd, too! I understood that you were in correspondence with friends at Leigh!"
"Tell yer I don't know no one in the place, and don't want to; never heard of the place!"
"Well, then, I suppose I can't carry through the business I imagined I had with you. Perhaps it's same other Mr. McDonald who is meant, and I have made a mistake. But your Christian name is Alexander, isn't it?"
"Yus, it is."
"And you're a professional boxer?"
"I am, guv'nor; and don't yer forget it!" Mr. McDonald's voice became quite threatening, and he clenched his right fist in a fashion distinctly menacing.
"Curious; that all tallies! And you are living at Southwark, aren't you?"
"Yus. And just let me ask you—" Mr. McDonald had become very red in the face, his left hand was withdrawn from his trouser-pocket, and he shifted his feet from the chair-rail to the floor.
"At the house of a Mrs. Brewer, I think?" pursued Lomax blandly.
"Yus."
"Well, then, I think you must be the gentleman to whom I am referring, with whom my business lies; every particular is in agreement."
"Tell yer I don't know no one at Leigh," the boxer reiterated sulkily.
"Then perhaps my—this gentleman, I mean—knows you without your knowing him!"
There was a silence for several seconds, and then there was a rattle as the pugilist got off his chair and came towards Lomax.
"Say, look here, guv'nor, what yer gettin' at? What's yer game with all this rot about Leigh-on-something to my advantage? Who d'yer think yer talkin' to, eh?"
"My business concerns the writing of some postcards—"
A violent exclamation escaped McDonald's lips; he stepped nearer Lomax and his right handwas raised in unmistakable threat of a blow. His rugged, hard-featured face was crimson, and his little, deep-set eyes glinted dangerously.
But Lomax's eyes met him fairly; his face betrayed astonishment, but nothing else; and whatever may have been the intention in McDonald's mind, something in the other's calm expression checked him.
"Really, sir, your conduct is most surprising," Lomax said calmly; "I quite fail to understand it. Perhaps you will be good enough to give me some explanation? What do you presume is my meaning, if the mention of the word 'postcards' leads you to such a display of violence?"
McDonald fell back sullenly.
"Yer'd better be careful, guv'nor!" he exclaimed, somewhat inconsequentially.
"Or what? Please recollect I am acting for another. I told you I had something to your advantage to communicate to you? Well, that is so. I have to make you an offer—"
"What of?"
"It is concerning the matter of postcards." McDonald's fists again clenched spasmodically. "I have to offer you a certain sum"—Dennis turned his head half-round and shot a glance at his partner's face, but Lomax had now decided how he was to act, and he continued decidedly—"a certain sum, if you will inform me who is the writer of a certain postcard that was found in the street in which you live—"
McDonald uttered a hoarse exclamation, he sprang forward, and this time there could not be any doubt of his intentions. His left fist shot forward, and, but for his quickly interposed arm, Robert Lomax would have taken a facer that might have laid him out flat. Before the boxer could repeat the assault, Lomax's hand grasped his jacket-collar.
"My man"—and the Yorkshireman spoke very clearly and distinctly—"you're doing a very foolish and a very dangerous thing. For this attack of yours—entirely uncalled for—I could call in the police and have you arrested straight away; and what then would happen to you, with your fight at Wonderland coming off this evening? Have you thought of that? I am not sure I shall send for the police. What is the reason for your extraordinary conduct, I don't know—I presume that you do yourself?—anywway, you'll find that it won't pay. I've the whip-hand of you, my friend, and I'll use my power."
Again McDonald fell back; the remainder of his impending boxing contest, particulars whereof had caught Lomax's eyes when he glanced through a sporting-paper during breakfast, sobered him, and quietened his aroused anger.
"What're yer interferin' with me for?" he growled savagely.
"I want to know about that postcard," Lomax replied, with quiet authoritativeness.
"Where is it?"
The boxer was off his guard; the question slipped out unawares—involuntarily—and Dennis, turning his head so that he caughta glimpse of the man's face, smiled.
"Then it belongs to you?" he asked.
McDonald looked at him; he recognised him immediately, and it also occurred to him that he had given himself away.
"I don't know what yer talking' about," he said.
"Yes, you do; the postcard my dog picked up yesterday, when he was barking at you," Dennis went on.
A fresh paroxysm of anger seized McDonald. He swore violently.
"I know yer!" he shouted. "Yer the bloke I saw come out of it! Yer coppers, that's what yer are! Give us that card, or I'll bash the bloomin' heads in of both of yer!"
"You won't!" Lomax again took a hand in the conversation. "Remember what I said. The police aren't far off, and to-night you box at Wonderland. You won't be such a tool as to ruin your chance of beating the champion lightweight of South Africa, and winning a hundred-pound purse, by running the risk of spending the next few days in a police-cell. You're not quite a fool, I take it. You just think matters over quietly for a bit."
"Have yer got my card?"
"Then it is yours? You did write it?"
"Give me my card!"
Lomax laughed.
"I can save my money. No need to pay you anything to find out who wrote it."
"Will yer—"
Possibly it was fear of being prevented from fighting his match that evening, perhaps it was something in Lomax's quiet, resolute air that held the boxer back from giving way to his temper. He restrained himself, but only by a violent effort. Nothing would have pleased him better than to have put his threat into execution, but he did not.
Muttering to himself, he backed to the door.
"Yer wait!" he cried violently. "Yer wait, that's all! Wait till I've done wi' this job to-night, an' then I'll see to yer! I'll give yer beans! I'll show yer what it is to come interferin' wi' me! I'll make it hot for yer! I'll have that postcard yer pinched if I have to kill one or both of yer! You'll see! Only yer wait till to-night's over!"
"Please don't slam the door as you go out."
Replying to Dennis's polite request with a remark that was very much the reverse of polite, McDonald threw the door open.
"If I stays here much longer, I won't be able to keep my hands off yer nohow!" he observed. And then he disappeared, going down the steep staircase two steps at a time.
Lomax turned to his partner with a smile on his firmly-featured face.
"That chap's a handful, Frank!" he said. "You have come upon something this time, and no mistake!"
"Yes; I thought he surely meant laying the pair of us out!"
"If he could--I doubt it. But don't get scared, sonny, he won't attempt that--not till to-night's gone, anyway. At all events, we're safe for half a day or so. He's a tough lot, he is!"
So I thought when I saw him! Well, Bob, we've learned something, anyway!"
"You're right, we have! But it seems to me it's only complicated matters more than ever. Instead of helping us, it's only made the mystery deeper. What, in the name of Fate, can this chap have to do with Mrs. Brewer?"
"He lodges at her house."
"Well, what of that?"
"He's been there some time--months, I understand."
"Well?" Lomax's tone was impatient.
"Before the postcards began to come at all."
"What is it you're driving at, sonny? You're enough to send a fellow off his chump! What connection can he have with the blessed cards?"
"He may have seen the earlier ones. Mrs. Brewer may even have shown them to him. She's evidently a long-tongued creature, telling her troubles abroad--Mrs. Biddlecombe knew all about them."
"What if she did? I don't see--"
"Not that the idea may have been suggested to McDonald that he could write some postcards himself?"
Lomax stared at his chum in frank amazement. As he had said more than once, detective work was sheer hard work, that didn't call for the use of the imagination; and, besides, he hadn't any imagination, he thanked Providence it wasn't so. The intuitions that came to story-book detectives, and by which they solved the deepest of mysteries, were all moonshine--tommy rot that the genuine article didn't take stock in. He looked at his partner a trifle disgustedly.
"This is some of your Sherlock Holmes rubbish, I suppose?" he observed.
"Very likely, Bob," Dennis replied briskly, not at all hurt by his chum's disparagement; "but I guess you'll find my idea is not so very far away from the truth!"
"Say," he went on; "this McDonald isn't quite a fool--he doesn't look it, he's got a good forehead. Now, presuming he saw those first postcards--and these, according to my theory, were sent only by way of a joke; why, or by whom, doesn't matter very much--what was to prevent him getting the idea and working it out by sending others, demanding money from Mrs. Brewer? He knew she had some; Mrs. Biddlecombe knew all about it, so why not he? He could imitate the handwriting. Mrs. Brewer might have confided to him her suspicions as to her own jealous relations being the senders of the cards. If he could threaten or frighten her into parting with money, it would be an easyway for him to get it--easier than being hammered by some other pugilist. She's a nervous woman; why shouldn't the idea work?"
Lomax had listened quietly while his chum had, with suppressed enthusiasm, detailed his fine theory. He had offered no interruptions, but his lip had curled slightly and there was ironic mirth in his eyes. The idea was a flight of fancy of which he couldn't be capable. Palpably, he thought it absurd."
"So that's your theory? he said at last.
"It is. I know you'll laugh at it, but you won't shake me."
"Probably not; you can be obstinate when you like! But we'll discuss it seriously, if that's possible. WHat have you to support it?"
"Not much, but enough. McDonald's in this, isn't he?"
"Obviously."
"Can you suggest why?"
Lomax shook his head, and Dennis continued:
"You have convinced yourself that a number of your bundle of cards are imitations--forgeries of the others. What does that show, if not that someone is working upon a suggestion the first lot of cards originated? Secondly, it is only in the latter ones the demand for money occurs; the first ones are abusive and impudent, but not threatening. Thirdly, McDonald's anxiety about the lost card. Now, what was there to prevent him from getting his forged cards posted in Leigh, same as the others?"
"Nothing. He doesn't know anyone in Leigh, however."
"An obvious lie, and you, Frank, believe it to be so."
"I do; but that doesn't convince me your idea is correct. Granting the presumption you start with, this theory of yours is plausible enough; but-- Well, old man, you won't feel hurt if I say that presumption strikes me as being a bit impossible--ridiculous?"
"Not a bit," was the cheerful rejoinder. "Now, see here, Bob; you go on working your way, grinding until you do form a tangible theory, and I'll keep on at my end. If you want any help, I'll give it you, and vice-versa. We may find we're working quite unconsciously into each other's hands. How'll that suit?"
"Very well, me!" Lomax answered. "And I wish you luck, sonny, but-- However, I'll get back down to Leigh: that's where my work lies. What'll you do?"
"I'm going to Wonderland to-night, to see McDonald fight the South African," Dennis replied, with a mystifying smile.
"Right-ho!" Lomax answered, after a short pause.
It occurred to him that Wonderland would not be a very healthy part of London for his chum if McDonald happened on him.