by Lewis Hockley [Percy Longhurst].
Originally published in The Magnet Library (The Amalgamated Press, Ltd.) vol.1 #20 (27 Jun 1908).
Again on the Trail.
"Yes. When I went there this morning, she wasn't there. A girl in the house told me that she had gone out, and she didn't know when she would be back again. So I went and had a chat with the next door neighbour—the loquacious lady—and she confirmed it. Said Mrs. Brewer had gone out the morning previous as usual, and hadn't come back again. Hinted at kidnapping or murder by the people who're so interested in getting the good lady's money."
"Well, I'm bless'd!" was Dennis's comment.
"And now, for all we know, there may be something in what that long-tongued woman said, and those two fellows we've just left—they must be members of a gang, and not doing this on their own—have perhaps carried Mrs. Brewer off or murdered her."
"Well, what do you say?" Lomax demanded when Ludgate Circus had been reached without the exchange of further words.
"Say! Why, this is one of the queerest cases a detective ever handled," Frank said solemnly. "No sooner is one point cleared up than two more come into being to make things more complicated than ever."
"You're right. I'll have to do some hard thinking," Lomax said.
When the two young detectives left Mr. Abrams's shop in Houndsditch, the proprietor thereof and his companion indulged in those recriminations which, considering the circumstances, were to be looked for. Each blamed the other. Both were considerably frightened, and their mutual anger was in proportion to their fright. They spoke heatedly, and some exceedingly disagreeable things were said on both sides. Suddenly the Jew made a move towards the door.
"Where yer off to?" demanded his companion.
"Fetch the polithe!"
"Yer ain't."
"I am."
"Yer ain't," the prizefighter said firmly; and he stepped towards Abrams.
The Jew measured him with his eyes, but, despite McDonald's used-up condition, it was obvious that if it came to a question of force, he'd be a good first, and the Hebrew a long way behind.
"We don't want no coppers in 'ere," the pugilist declared. "I don't want 'em at all."
"But I can have 'em locked up forforthibly entering my houthe!" the Hebrew squeaked.
"Yus, and when they're here, what're yer goin' to tell 'em, eh? Why, a lot of things which we don't want 'em to know."
"You're afraid of getting locked up, that'th what'th the matter with you!" sneered the Jew. "Not that it'd be the firtht time either," he added tauntingly. "Should think you'd be uthed to it by thith time."
"'Old yer tongue!" McDonald thundered; and his badly-damaged face looked so terribly evil that the Jew fairly qualled. "If yer say anything more to me about that I'll—I'll—I'll murder yer!"
"Well," Abrams said sulkily, "you've got uth into thith meth; you'll have to get uth out of it."
"'Tain't my fault. I tell yer!" McDonald growled. "You shouldn't 'ave let those fellows come in."
"If you hadn't lotht that pothtcard there wouldn't have been any trouble at all," retorted the Jew. "They wouldn't have known anything about it, and—"
"Will yer shut up?" shouted McDonald; and he was so violently threatening, Abrams put the table between himself and the other. "I didn't lose it a-purpose, yer fool!"
"But you lotht it; that'th quite enough."
"Well," growled McDonald, after an uncomfortable silence, the Jew's eyes looking stealthily amidst the heterogeneous collection scattered around the floor for his revolver; with that weapon in his hand he would have far less fear of his dangerous accomplice—"Well, there ain't so much 'arm done, after all."
"Harm!"—and the Jew yelled the word—"harm! Vy, mother o' Abraham, vot more harm do you vant to thee done? Grathious heaventh! Don't you think there'th any harm done until ve're both in quod?"
He became so excited he was almost incoherent.
"We ain't going to quod—at least, I ain't!" the pugilist declared.
"You'll believe it when you're there, young man!" sneered Abrams. "If you hadn't lotht—"
"Quit!" shouted McDonald, and the Jew held his piece. "What good'll the card do 'em now they 'ave got it?" he went on.
"Why, they know you wrote it—"
"You told me to," interrupted McDonald quickly.
"And they'll get out a warrant for your arretht. Didn't you hear the big chap thay tho? That'th what they'll do, and then—"
"Then I'll tell 'em you told me to write it."
"Will you? Well, my friend, don't you be thinking that'll do you any good, for it won't. You've wrote it, and you'll—"—"have to stand the consequences," Abrams was going to say, but thought better of it.
"Well?" asked the prizefighter aggressively.
"Have to get it back," Abrams concluded.
"What's the good? Without Mrs. Brewer they can't do nothing, and they can't get 'old of 'er."
The Hebrew pricked up his ears suddenly, and looked at his companion in blank amazement. WHat did he mean? How were the detectives to be prevented from getting hold of Mrs. Brewer, without whose consent they could, in fact, do very little? They knew her address.
"Vat d'ye mean?"
McDonald, who had fetched a bottle of whisky and a tumbler from a cupboard, poured himself out a liberal dose of the spirit and drank it off before he replied. He was so long, his companion repeated the query.
"What I says," he replied, and his face flushed a trifle.
"But vhy?" persisted the Jew.
"Because they can't. I've took care o' that."
Abrams looked, if anything, still more surprised.
"You!" he repeated. "And vat've you been doing?"
The prizefighter laughed shortly.
"Never you mind!" he said, and took another dose of whisky.
Abrams stood considering for a moment; then he went and stood in front of his accomplice, and looked him in the eyes. The Jew has never yet showed himself deficient in courage, either physical or moral, and Abrams was no renegade.
"Look here, my friend," he said, speaking very quietly and distinctly, "what'th the meaning o' thith? What've you been doing that you haven't told me of? We're in thith job together—thee? and what we do we do together. There ain't going to be any hanky-panky between uth. I've been thraight with you; you'll have to be thraight with me—thee? Now, what ith it?"
McDonald wasn't altogether a brute. There was some brain in him, as the shape of his forehead showed; but he had more brawn than brain, and the intelligence of the Jew was of a higher order than his.
With the two together the Hebrew would always be the master; his brain would always dominate McDonald's, though there might now and then be signs of rebellion; and though he did it reluctantly, McDonald submitted now and answered the question.
"Why, look here, and blow me, but yer ought to be jolly thankful for it, it's like this. When that fellow let me know as 'ed got the card 'is rotten dog pinched, I says to myself there'll be trouble over this; and when 'e 'ad me up at 'is office and talked about it, I was sure of it, an' so I just persuades old Mrs. Brewer, as a change of air'd do 'er good, that she'd be better for going away from Walworth for a bit."
"Oh!" Abrams was, in vulgar phraseology, "Struck all of a heap" by this announcement. He had never credited his confederate with so much brains. The value of getting Mrs. Brewer out of the way now that the detectives knew so much was patent to the Jew; that the prizefighter should also have comprehended so much, startled him. Then a sensible thought came to him.
"Have you killed her?" he asked, in a whisper.
"No, but I blessed well will sooner'n go to prison!" the pugilist answered fiercely.
The Jew felt relieved. Conspiracy, fraud, robbery he didn't mind, but he was of the stuff that cannot deal in murder.
"Vhy didn't you tell me thith?" he demanded.
"Because I 'aven't 'ad time," McDonald replied.
The pugilist had another reason, and a great deal better one, but he didn't choose to make it known. He was a good deal more cunning than his accomplice had ever suspected, though the latter's respect for him was increasing considerably.
The game of terrifying his landlady into disbursing some of her wealth for his—and Abrams's—benefit having started, and the untoward circumstances of the detectives' acquaintance with it having transpired, he had conceived the idea of getting Mrs. Brewer out of harm's way; while at the back of his head was the thought that any profit ultimately resulting through the landlady would fall to himself alone, his partner being thus cheated out of his share.
What he had had been alone. He had meant to keep it to himself, but in the stress of circumstances the fact had come to light.
"It'd have thaved a lot 'o trouble if you'd told me thith at firtht," the Jew observed, after a short time. "Vhy didn't you tell me? Vhen did it happen?"
"Two days ago—day afore yesterday."
"Well then"—and Abrams heaved a sigh of relief—"we ain't got much to fear from thothe bletthed detectiveth, after all. Where ith the?"
McDonald bent his head, and whispered a word in the Jew's ear.
"You don't thay tho!" Abrams exclaimed, open-eyed.
"But I do, honour bright!" returned McDonald. "And I guess it'll take those blessed sweeps a long time to find her; and if what yer says about the warrant is right, then we ought to be safe."
What that whispered word was which had occasioned Mr. Solomon Abrams so great surprise, two young men, cooking a meal in their office-lodging, would have dearly loved to know.
* * * * *
Robert Lomax and Frank Dennis, while engaged in the necessary work preliminary to satisfying the inner man, had much to say concerning the disappearance of their client, whereof Lomax had notified his chum as they came along.
"One thing I'm quite sure of," Dennis observed decidedly, suspending for a moment his business of toasting a huge rasher of gammon bacon, "that is it'd be of no use you or I talking either to the Jew or his pal about it. We've got the whip-hand of 'em seemingly; but if we let 'em into the knowledge of our client's disappearance, our hold of 'em weakens a deal."
"Strikes me," Lomax said suddenly, "that they know of it already, and that's why they were so saucy this day."
"Don't think that," Dennis rejoined. "If they did, the Jew wouldn't have attached such a deal of importance to the recovery of the postcard."
"May be. Anyway, arguing won't settle it, or find Mrs. Brewer, and that, I take it, is our next job."
"Yes; and where we're going to begin I don't know."
"We didn't know a lot before we handled this case. We've got to ferret it out, same as we've done the rest. Anyway, I'm going to start with the assumption our Houndsditch friends do know of Mrs. Brewer's going away. Now, considering the matter in the light of common-sense, what is apparent? Who's most likely to benefit by her vanishing?"
"Not us, certainly."
"Don't be flippant!"
Not Abrams & Co., for if their idea is to get money out of her, she's got to be somewhere where they can reach her—somewhere near to their hands."
"Precisely. And where nearer or more convenient than in some place of which they've the key. In fact, suppose they've got her prisoner?"
"Lomax, my boy, you're getting imaginative."
"Not a bit!" the Yorkshireman retorted warmly. "This is pure, common-sense, deductive reasoning. It gives the motive, and when that is supplied one's got something to work upon. With the woman in their power, our friends, the enemy, would be in a strong position.
"Yes, so strong that they wouldn't need to go to the length of murdering me to get back the postcard," Dennis obected.
"Very good. We'll agree to differ," Lomax said. "I'll work on my theory, you on yours—if you have one."
"Not yet," confessed Frank; and the partners continued with their meal without further reference to the subject.
But, as we have seen, though Lomax was more or less correct in his theory, his partner was not so very far wrong in his disagreement therewith.
That evening the lad Punch did not turn up as he had promised, and Lomax departed alone to prosecute the line of action upon which he had decided.
"I'm going to shadow either Abrams or McDonald," he told his partner before he went. "If they have ot Mrs. Brewer boxed up anywhere, I reckon I'll find it out in good time. I guess you won't see me all day, Frank; but I'll look in here every evening if I can to see you and hear or tell you of anything that turns up. If I want you, I'll send you a wire here."
"All right, old chap," Dennis said. "Sorry I can't see the same as you do over this; but if I'm wrong I'll admit it; and you can count on me to give you a hand whenever you want it."
That night Bob Lomax tracked "Sleeping" McDonald—aided by a reporter of a sporting paper and two or three enthusiastic upholders of East London pugilism, to whom the scribe referred him—to the ring side of a select little club not a hundred miles from Oxford Circus, which made a speciality of boxing bouts as an attraction for its members.
He talked freely with McDonald, and the latter answered with enthusiasm to Lomax's overtures to the boxer concerning a further boxing bout in which Lomax was willing to back a lad of his fancy against McDonald.
McDonald introduced him to his backer, Mr. Solly Abrams, and the trio had an interesting conversation together; but it is exceedingly doubtful if the pugilist and his friend had been so genial and eager for business if they had dreamed for one moment that the bespectacled, bearded gentleman in the soft wideawake and long, light overcoat, and who spoke with an accent which they couldn't decide was South African or Yankee, who flourished rolls of banknotes—bogus ones—and talked at large, and whom they styled a real good sort, although a teetotaller, was the young man whose knuckle-dustered fists had earlier in the day left their impression on the boxer's countenance.
A disguise will work wonders, and Bob Lomax expended some of his capital most judiciously. Anyway, neither the Jew nor the boxer recognised him.
All unconscious of the identity of their new acquaintance, the sight of whose bank(?)notes was sufficient to make him welcome, Solomon Abrams and "Sleeping" McDonald, to use a colloquial expression, "froze on to him," and before long the three were on the most amicable terms. It was a pity, they thought, that so good a fellow was a teetotaller, but he smoked, and shared with them some really first-class cigars, and was ready to pay for all the drinks they cared to have.
As for the man whom he was willing to back against McDonald, they, the pugilist in particular, he being on very good terms with himself—the events at No. 142, Houndsditch notwithstanding—believed themselves in for a soft thing. They took him for a mug, proved conclusively that his knowledge of pugilism and pugilists were not extensive, and did their level best to engineer him into definitely fixing up a match. Lomax, pretending to be excited, fell in with their suggestions, and proposed all three should go to his lodgings forthwith to draw up the articles of agreement. The proposition was accepted, a growler was called, and the three got inside.
It was late by this time, about two in the morning, and Lomax had scarcely been in the cab five minutes before he fell asleep.
"Here, wake up, old man!" exclaimed Abrams; and he seized Lomax by his knee and shook him vigorously. "I'm wanting another of thothe very fine thigarth of yourth. Wake up; you ain't in bed yet!"
But Lomax only stirred and grunted; and after one or two more ineffectual attempts to waken him, the precious pair broke into a laugh.
"Done up!" said McDonald.
"And on water, too!" laughed the Jew. "Motheth! But what a fellow to thleep!"
"He's tired out, let him alone," said his companion. "'Ere, I say!" and he suddenly sat bolt upright.
"Vat ith it?"
McDonald laughed loudly, and then glanced quickly at the sleeping man, whom, however, the noise hadn't disturbed a little bit.
"Vat ith it?" repeated the Jew impatiently.
"The old woman!" And McDonald laughed again.
"Who?"
"Old Mrs.—Mrs. Brewer. Good name that; feel like one myself." And once more his mirth was released.
"Thut up!"
The Jew glared at McDonald, and then at the sleeping man. The inside of the cab was none too light, but Abrams could see that their new acquaintance's eyes were closed, and could hear his regular breathing. But McDonald frightened him. The prizefighter had taken quite a lot aboard, and it was now beginning to show effect on him.
"Sha'n't shut up!" he reoined. "Must laugh; th' joke's too good. Ha, ha, ha! Old woman locked up without a bit to eat or drink. Should like another drink myself. Ain't it rich?"
"Thut up!" exclaimed the Jew again, angrily. "Keep your mouth thut, or he'll hear you."
"Can't; 'e's asleep. Ain't yer, old sport? Sound as a ball." And leaning across, the pugilist in drunken playfulness shook Lomax by the leg. "Sound asleep in yer little cot, ain't yer?"
"Will you be quiet?" cried Abrams, in a fierce whisper.
"Am quiet. Who says I ain't is a liar!" McDonald exclaimed indignantly. "'E's a liar, ain't 'e, old sport?"
But Lomax never moved a muscle, even when McDonald tried to give his hair a clumsy tug.
"Locked up without food or water. That's what we'll be getting jolly soon, won't we, old pal?" continued the tipsy rogue, who was not to be silenced. "Bread an' water, bread an' water! Water! Oh, my jiminy!"
His laughter was checked by the Jew, who grabbed his arm and shook him fiercely, and McDonald turned on his confederate angrily.
"'Ere, who're yer touchin'?" he demanded angrily. "I'm the blessed ten-stone champion, ten-stone champ, and I ain't goin' to let no one— 'Ere, where are we?"
He leaned to the window and peered out, nearly falling on the knees of Lomax in the attempt, and he would have done so but that Abrams held him up. They had been driving nearly a quarter of an hour, and both had been too much occupied to note in which direction the cab was travelling. They had not heard what directions their friend had given to the driver, and when Abrams, startled by the prize-fighter's sudden remark, also turned his eyes towards the window, the little he could see left him in quite as much doubt as if he had been in the same condition as the pugilist, who wasn't in a fit state to recognise anything.
"Look here, Thandy," and the Jew took McDonald's arm and tried to drag him from the window, "you don't know vat you're thaying, tho hold yer tongue. Thuppose he did hear?"
"What of it? Good fellow! Wouldn't 'urt a fly," rejoined Sandy. "Got pile o' money, though, an' think's 'e's got a man as can fight—fight me! Jiminy! Ha, ha!"
"Well, thut up, then; I don't know where we are."
"Dunno where we are? Well, I do, then, old sport. We're where I took old woman to—old woman Brewer. Good name, ain't it? This is the street, an', jiminy, there's the 'ouse! No. 4—that's it!—4, Ringwood's Court, New Cut. That's where I've got 'er, old pal, as all safe an' sound as a babby in its mother's arms. Never get out no more—never no more, my boy, not till—"
"Will you—" begun Abrams, shaking with helpless anger, the while he fearfully eyed the impassive man in the corner of the cab.
But McDonald's tongue was loosed, it was not to be stayed, and he rambled on, sometimes but half coherently, yet continually coming back to the subject of the "old woman Brewer."
And all the while Lomax lay back in his corner, motionless, impassive, the perfect presentation of a man overcome by exceeding fatigue and weariness, the subject of sleep profound and absorbing. Yet though his body was quiescent, his brain was very wide awake, acute, and vigilant. Not a word that passed between the two rogues opposite him missed his ears, and every word of consequence was immediately photographed on his memory.
He would not have believed himself capable of a deception so convincing; he surprised himself. True, he was aided by the condition in which were his companions, as well as the gloominess of the cab; but to him was done all credit for the truly marvellous ascendancy that his will during that cab drive enforced upon his body.
This had been his plan, though its carrying out had been vague even to himself when he started to find McDonald and his backer. Believing that one or both were concerned in Mrs. Brewer's disappearance, he had decided to shadow them, in the hope that he might be led to where he believed that his client had been imprisoned.