by Lewis Hockley [Percy Longhurst].
Originally published in The Magnet Library (The Amalgamated Press, Ltd.) vol.1 #19 (20 Jun 1908).
At Bay.
And Punch was successful. Dennis gathered his scattered wits together, and recognised his saviours.
"How in the world did you get here?" he demanded.
And then he recollected the precious postcard, and, turning to the heap of things Abrams had removed from his pockets, he looked through them hurriedly. The postcard was there; between two letters it had escaped Abrams' one-eyed search, and with a gasp of satisfaction, Frank crammed it together with his other belongings into his pockets.
By this time the Jew had wrenched himself free from Grip's jaws, but he was immediately seized by the collar by Punch, twisted to the floor, and incontinently sat upon.
McDonald, badly hurt and fast weakening, felt he could keep it up no longer; he had already had something to do with Dennis, and his fists, though hard, were less punishing than Lomax's knuckle-dusters. Suddenly dropping his guard, he rushed at Bob head first, intending to butt him out of the way.
But the Yorkshireman knew the guard to that particular form of attack. As McDonald neared him, he raised his right knee sharply, and upper-cut the pugilist so successfully, that he dropped in a heap on the littered floor. For a few seconds Bob regarded him with a satisfied air; then he turned to his chum.
"Well, Frank," he exclaimed pantingly, "how goes it? And what's the meaning of all this?"
"How did you come here?"
"Thought I'd call on Mr. Abrams," Lomax explained. "And as I couldn't get in at the front door, I had no hesitation in entering at the back. Looks as if I were not altogether ill-timed in my visit, either. Much hurt, old chap? You've been having a decent sort of scrap here, by the look of things."
"Not much, I think. The blackguards! We'll talk to 'em! We've go the whiphand now—turned the tables! Here, Grip!"
Grip, who had been industriously licking a spot whereon Solly Abrams' boot-heel had fallen heavily, bounded forward. He listened with one ear cocked forward, and his brown eyes full of intelligence when Lomax pointed out to him the body of McDonald, just beginning to recover from his knock-out blow. He understood precisely what was required of him, and he sat down on his haunches within a yard of the boxer, with an expression on his jaws and in his eyes that plainly intimated his intention to make things warm for that gentleman if he were so foolhardy as to move. Probably the terrier, who had already evinced a prejudice against McDonald, wished that his enemy would move.
"Now my lad,"—and Lomax turned to the young man on Abrams chest—"let him get up, please. We want to talk to him, and I guess he won't be able to answer very easily with you squatting over his lungs. Let him go; he can't do any harm."
Solomon Abrams sat up. He recognised Lomax, and started violently. He swore feebly to himself; but as Bob sad said, he couldn't do any harm. The turn of events—and Grip's teeth—had broken him up for the time being.
"Now my friend"—and Lomax picked up one of the fallen chairs and sat down facing the Jew—"what's the meaning of all this? You seem to have let yourself in comfortably for something decidedly unpleasant. This looks very like attempted murder, or robbery with exaggerated violence, and that sort of thing is liable to get the perpetrator, when caught, a sentence of penal servitude. And you are caught, please remember."
The Jew's face turned a disagreeable greenish hue, but he did not speak.
"You and your friend here have laid up a nice bit of trouble for yourselves over this," Lomax went on remorselessly. "Come, loosen your tongue, my friend; I want to have an explanation of this. Why have you and your confederate been doing your level best to murder my partner, and, incidentally, lay the foundation for a prolonged holiday for your two selves in one of his Majesty's official lodging-houses?"
"Murder him!" repeated the Jew, with some show of spirit. "He'th nearly murdered uth. And what have you been doing, eh? What'th the meaning of your athault on uth, I thould like to know? And what d'ye mean by breaking in my houthe in thith fathion, eh? Anther me that! It'th you an' your pal here what'th going to git the penal thervitude ath you'll quickly thee. It'th houthebreaking, that'th what it ith—houthebreaking an' attempted murder! You'll look prethious funny, my friend, when I callth in a politheman an' giveth you in charge, eh? The boot'th very muth on the other foot, I fanthy."
The Hebrew had worked himself into a state of excitement; but his charge, legitimate as it might have been proved—for the detective had no legal right whatsoever for having entered the house as he had done—did not seem to affect the Yorkshireman's nerves disastrously. In fact, he smiled.
"Finished?" he asked coolly.
"You can grin!" Mr. Abrams snapped. "Wait until we get the polithe here, an' then let'th thee what you'll have to thay!"
"Police!" echoed Lomax scornfully. "I'd like to see you send for the police! It's just what you want, isn't it, for a policeman to come in here and hear what's happened. The very thing for you, isn't it? Do it, my friend, by all means do it! Send for the police. Here, I'll help you! Here's a police whistle." And he produced one from his pocket. "Fetch 'em up, do! Just go and give a call, and you'll get all the police you want in something less than two shakes of a sheep's tail. Police grow plentifully about here; and, by Jove, if many of the gentry hereabouts are like yourself, they're wanted pretty badly. Send for the police, my dear sir; I'll help you get 'em."
But Mr. Abrams evinced no alacrity to accept the hearty invitation or the assistance Bob promised. He looked murderously at the young man out of his one useful eye, and snarled to himself something to the effect that Lomax would probably find himself before long, not quite so cock-sure and confident as he was at present.
"Well, Frank, perhaps you'll tell us what has happened?" went on Lomax pleasantly, seeing that the Jew was not anxious to enlighten him.
"It is told in one sentence, Frank Dennis answered. "You know the purpose for which I came here. Well, I saw Abrams, showed him that I had the card, and he threatened to shoot me if I did not give it to him. He locked the door, and just as I was trying to force my way out, that man, McDonald, appeared from somewhere. What followed, you have seen for yourself—luckily for me."
"Just what I imagined. Now, then, Abrams, you're cornered, you see, and if you're wise, you'll make a clean breast of the business. Why are you so anxious to get hold of that card? What does it mean to you that you're ready to do murder to get hold of it?"
But Solly Abrams made no reply, though his wits were anything but idle. The game had gone very badly against him; he thought that the winning cards were in his hands, and, lo and behold, the ace of trumps, in the person of Robert Lomax, had come up against him. He was cornered, and he knew it. It was up to him to do something. And he dared not bluff. These men, even though they were young, were not of the breed that may be bluffed easily. Still, he had to do something, though he had no intention of speaking the truth. He tried to move off the track—to shirk the main point.
"You've broken into my houthe—" he began. But Lomax told him to cut it short; they were not to be frightened by bluffing of that sort.
"I'll take out a warrant for forthible entry, and—"
"Take it out when you get the chance," Lomax retorted impatiently. "I hope you will, and much good may it do you!"
"Well then," the Jew cried desperately, "thinthe I mutht tell you, I thuppothe. That young man, when he thowed me the pothtcard"—he pointed to Frank—"I took to be my buthineth rival; there'th a firm that'th tryin' to underthell me in my cardth. They've forged my regithtered trade mark—the A inthide the ring—and I wanted a copy of one of their productionth tho that I could thow it to a tholithitor and begin an action againtht them. That'th all, an' now you know."
"So that's why you offered me money for the card?" asked Frank. "You were so anxious to get hold of a specimen of your business competitor's forgeries?"
"Yeth," agreed the Jew.
"So anxious," commented Lomax sarcastically, "that you were willing to run the risk of being tried for murder in order to gain your evidence for a minor criminal prosecution. That's it, eh?"
Mr. Solly Abrams nodded sulkily.
"Well, all I can say is, Mr. Abrams," Lomax said, "that you've got a pretty poor idea of commonsense. Try again, man, try again; this explanation is as great an insult to your own intelligence as it is to ours. It's too thin by half. THhink of something else."
Mr. Abrams' expression was very much that of a particularly ugly rat, that, being in a trap, realises that he is safely caught, and no means of escape exists.
The Jew turned fiercely round upon the boys, his eyes gleaming.
"The curse of Judah be on you!" he hissed.
"Certainly," Lomax said cheerfully. "And anything else in a small way? Meanwhile, answer my question, or"—and here the young man dropped his bantering tone and became distinctly threatening—"I shall go out and fetch a policeman, and give both of you into custody for attempted murder."
A sudden low growling from Grip attracted Lomax's attention, and he turned to the defeated prizefighter, whose movements, as consciousness returned to him, had awakened the terrier's suspicions.
"Easy, Grip," directed his master. And then to McDonald: "Now, my man, what's the reason for your attempt to murder my friend here?"
McDonald's brain was still a trifle confused after the severe jolt it had received, and in a dull, half-asleep sort of voice he said: "He lost me the fight."
"At Wonderland, he means," supplemented Dennis, by way of explanation.
"Bunkum!" retorted Lomax sharply. "It wasn't that; you were afraid of my friend, for some reason or other. What was it?"
At the word "afraid" the eyes of McDonald, who was rapidly coming round, glinted viciously. "He lost me the fight," he repeated.
"Coward," observed Mr. Abrams.
"Wot about you?" inquired Punch, who, while this conversation was going on, had been making an interested examination of the contents of the room.
Mr. Abrams favoured him with a scowl, murmuring:
"You wait! You jutht wait—that'th all!"
Lomax was beginning to question McDonald again when his partner, who had been seated on the table deep in thought, came to him.
"Look here, old chap," he said, in a low voice, "it'll be no advantage to us if we do make these scoundrels confess; they'll have to do that when they're placed in the dock. Don't you think our best move is to leave them, and go to obtain a warrant for their arrest? We've got quite sufficient as it is to warrant the issue of one. If they won't talk, they won't, and we can't make them. And, besides, we're doing no real good."
"Perhaps you're right," Lomax replied. "Though, by George, it would give me some satisfaction to force these brutes into owning up. But you're right, Frank; we'll get out of here."
Then he turned to the Jew.
"See here, Mr. Abrams," he said. "No doubt you think you know your own business best, but let me give you a word of advice. If you care to own up, it is possible you'd hear no more of the matter; there's no harm been done yet—no actual harm—so maybe you won't be prosecuted. But if you don't, then you will. I'll make it my business to see that the police take it up if our client declines. I'll give you until nine o'clock this evening for you and your precious partner to think it over. If there's no answer then to my proposition, I go out for a warrant straight away. Now you know where you are."
Letting themselves out of the room, Lomax and his partner, with Grip, and followed by the ex-boxer and ex-pickpocket, Punch, left the house. To the last-named Frank spoke a few words, telling him to come up to the Fleet Street office later in the evening. Their hands and faces were damaged somewhat, their clothes in disorder, and they spent a few minutes in the shop of a neighbouring barber, who eyed them with some curiosity as he attended to their wants.
They had reached the St. Paul's end of Cannon Street, still discussing the events in Mr. Abrams shop, when Lomax suddenly gave vent to a violent exclamation."
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "What a silly, idiotic gaumless fool I am, to be sure!"
"What's the trouble now?" his chum inquired.
"Why, I clean forgot it until this moment! And I told that rascally Jew no harm had been done, and perhaps our client wouldn't prosecute if he made a clean breast of the matter. My word!"
"Well, what is it?"
"Why, goodness only knows what harm has been done, and we haven't a client now!"
"Haven't a client?" And Dennis stopped and looked at his partner with complete surprise. "What d'you mean?"
"Why, Mrs. Brewer has disappeared!"
"Disappeared?"