by Lewis Hockley [Percy Longhurst].
Originally published in The Magnet Library (The Amalgamated Press, Ltd.) vol.1 #14 (16 May 1908).
Dennis has an Ally.
Someone followed Dennis out after the contest, but this he did not notice. On the pavement he waited outside. He wished to see McDonald leave, and, under the circumstances, he believed the beaten man would not be long bofore he did.
He was not disappointed. Within ten minutes a little knot issued from tho entrance, McDonald in the centre. The others appeared to be speaking angrily to him, half a dozen men, fairly well-dressed, two unmistakably of the Hebrew race, but he was giving no attention. It was to the other men that Dennis turned his eyes.
Suddenly McDonald turned his head. He caught sight of the waiting figure of Dennis, and his damaged face became a fiery red. He uttered a fierce oath, a cry full of anger and passion. With a mad rush he crossed the intervening space, his right fist clenched, his lips working.
"It was you made me get beat!" he snarled.
Simultaneously his fist was jerked forward, and the knuckles came into collision with Dennis's chin, who staggered back, half-dazed by the blow, the ground reeling beneath his feet, his senses suddenly clouded.
Dennis felt as if he were awakening from a long sleep when his eyes opened; there was a singing in his ears, and he had a general impression that he had been struck, but that seemed hours ago. Someone was holding him by the shoulders.
As a matter of fact it was not hours, but only a few seconds, and Dennis was still outside the entrance to Wonderland. A crowd of people had gathered, and a good deal of shouting was going on. The someone supporting Dennis was a policeman.
A long drawn-out, exceedingly shrill sound pierced the young man's ears. It was a call on his whistle that the constable supporting him had just blown, and Frank's temporary stupor passed away. He stood upright and looked around him.
A few feet away he saw McDonald, his arms tightly held, making violent efforts to break away from the detaining grasp of his friends and finish the work he had so well begun. The pugilist was shouting loudly, and his observations were of a peculiarly bloodthirsty character.
"Where— What has happened?" Dennis exclaimed.
"That's what I'd like to know, young man!" the policeman replied. "Feeling better, eh?"
"Yes, I'm all right."
Behind him Frank became aware of further scuffling, and turning round, he was surprised to see, also held fast by his arm, the sallow-faced youth to whom he had paid the blackmail.
It doesn't take long for a police-call to be answered in the Whitechapel Road; officers are fairly close together; and in a very few seconds three constables arrived on the scene, scattering the increasing crowd, and sternly commanding an immediate dispersal. One was a sergeant, and he turned immediately to the officer who had given the call and who was standing close by Dennis with an expression that plainly told the young man that he would not be permitted to go away.
"Now, then, what is it?"
"Don't know yet what it's all about," was the answer. "I saw a crowd and I come up here to find him and him"—he pointed first to McDonald and then to the sallow-faced youth—"fighting. This young man"—Dennis—"was lying on the pavement."
"Yus, an' I wish I'd killed him!" shouted McDonald violently.
His friends still held him tightly, and one of the newly-arrived policemen was by him; the other had taken up his position by the sallow-faced lad.
"And so I would if it hadn't been for that chap!" went on McDonald, giving no attention to his friends' adjurations to shut his mouth and glaring ferociously at his recent opponent. "An' I will kill him," he added, "if I 'ave to swing for it!"
"'E went up an' 'it the gentleman on the jaw!" volunteered one of the members of the crowd, who seemed much disinclined to depart. "'E's McDonald!"
"I know him," the sergeant said grimly.
"Yeth; an' that young rascal went an' hit Mr. McDonald without any provocation watthoever," interpolated one of McDonald's friends nervously. "We'll charge him with atthault. It'h him you've got to lock up, thergeant. He came an' hit Thandy when he wathn't lookin'!"
"Yus; becos 'e 'it 'im!" the youth in question shouted.
"Hit who?" asked one of the constables.
"'Im!" pointing to Dennis.
"And what had you got to do with it?" the Israelite demanded hotly. "He didn't hit you!"
The sergeant looked at the constable.
"Know him!" he said, jerking his head at the sallow-faced youth.
"Yes," was the succinct reply; "one assault, to pocket-picking."
"That'll do. Take all three of 'em along to the station." the sergeant said peremptorily; "We'll learn all about it there."
Neither McDonald nor the lad whose interest in Dennis was presumably so great that he had intervened to protect him from McDonald's savage assault, seemed at all charmed by the prospect of the visit; they expressed their disagreement with the suggestion in no measured terms, and both made desperate attempts to evade the call. Protesting, both were, however, led away. Dennis following them side by side with the sergeant; while behind came McDonald's friends, conversing together in low, excited tones.
"Disorderly conduct," reported the sergeant to the inspector-in-charge, and that official proceeded to interrogate the culprits.
Once inside the station, McDonald had become palpably nervous. He glared at Dennis like an angry tiger, but he kept his temper in check, and replied to the questions quietly, if not with overpowering civility. He admitted striking Dennis. He had lost an important fight; Dennis was the cause of his defeat; and his temper had got the better of him. What Dennis had to do with him losing, he couldn't or wouldn't say.
He admitted striking "Punch"—that was the name by which he knew the other prisoner—but, then, Punch had struck him first, and he had only returned the blow. He knew Punch, he sometimes did a bit of boxing—in fact, he had once fought against him, McDonald, and had been licked; ever since, he had been ill-disposed towards him.
Punch was briefly questioned. Evidently he considered that the less he said the better it would be for him, and most of his answers were in monosyllables.
Dennis, so far as he was able, corroborated the statements of the other two. He had seen McDonald's battle, but why the latter should consider himself as responsible for his defeat he was quite at a loss to understand. He gave some particulars of himself, and when asked if he desired to enter a charge for assault against McDonald, replied in the negative. Although surprised, the inspector made no comment, and, there being nothing else to be done, both McDonald and Punch were severely cautioned and allowed to leave the station; of which permission neither were slow to take advantage.
Indifferent to the scowling glances of McDonald, who was immediately joined by his friends waiting outside, and with them at once turned eastward, Frank Dennis, giving Punch no chance of getting away, promptly engaged him in conversation.
"Why did you go for McDonald directly you saw him strike me?" he demanded, going straight to the point at once.
The lad hesitated, looked away, and then said:
"Yer'd paid me that bob, guv'nor."
"And you're no great friends with McDonald, eh?" pursued the detective. He had the idea that this fellow might be made of some use to him.
"No, guv'nor." And Punch's sallow cheeks flushed. "'E took my gal away from me, an' then 'e—'e— Well, mister, 'e licked me. I was a blessed fool, for 'e's a good 'alf-stone over my weight, an'—an' I wants to git even with 'im. An' I will, too, if I goes to quod for it!" he added viciously.
"H'm; I see! Well, let us go on walking; I don't want to lose sight of McDonald!"
"They'll be goin' into the Prince of Wales, sir," Punch said eagerly; "that's where he allus goes after a fight! My stars, but I'm glad 'e was licked to-night, though 'ow it was beats me!"
Dennis could have told him had he chosen. He knew well enough that the interview McDonald had had with Maxennis that morning had unsettled the boxer's mind; had made him fearful of the consequences that possibly might result from his participation—whatever such might be—in the matter of Mrs. Brewer's postcards. However, and to what extent, he might be implicated—and this it was Dennis's endeavour to find out—that interview had obviously scared him. Lomax had not said a great deal, but sufficient to cause him apprehension. With a possibility of being locked up—for a guilty conscience will always imagine the worst—and not knowing how much was known to Maxennis, he had gone into the ring that night a very different man from his usual self. But for that interview, he would have tackled the South African boxer in his usual style, and a further victory would have been placed to his credit.
As it was, he had been beaten, and badly, too! He had lost the prize-money, and he would get into trouble with his backers, whose money he had been the means of losing for them; and, worst of all, for even such men as McDonald have a certain kind of pride, his reputation had suffered. The sporting papers would be full, next morning, of his crushing defeat; his fame was tarnished—his glory had declined. Small wonder that when he recognised Frank Dennis outside the hall his temper had got the better of him, and he attempted such revenge on the person whom he considered responsible for his own inglorious defeat.
As for Punch, reprobate and wastrel, he could make nothing of Dennis. But the suspicion with which such as he would naturally regard Dennis, was swept aside by the comprehension that, in some way or other, he was antagonistic to his—Punch's—enemy. In accordance with this conclusion, he had jumped forward to Dennis's defence when the infuriated boxer struck at him.
"Them's 'is backers," he volunteered, as he walked alongside Dennis at a pace sufficiently fast to keep McDonald and his companions in sight.
"Oh!" the detective answered absently, trying to evolve some plan whereby he might again have the chance of persuading or coercing McDonald into revealing what he knew of the forged postcards.
"Yus," Punch continued confidentially; "I knows 'em! That one in the trilby 'at's Bill Roker, keeps a public-'ouse in Shoreditch; t'other's his brother Ned; an' the little one—'im with the overcoat an' bowler—is the one wot finds nearly all the money. Sheeney, 'e is; 'as put up the oof for all McDonald's big fights; brought 'im out, 'e did, an' 'as got 'im under 'is thumb. 'E makes picture postcards; got a place in 'Oundsditch."
"Eh?" Dennis was suddenly awakened from his fit of abstraction. He had listened but vaguely to what his companion was saying, but the word postcards had entered his ears and jolted his brains. "What's that?"
"I says as the Jew chap wi' McDonald is Solly Abrahams. Know 'im?" asked Punch. "'E's rollin in money! Makes picture postcards in 'Oundsditch, an' is McDonald's backer. Does yer know 'im, guv'nor?"
"I've heard of him," Dennis answered carelessly.
But his heart was beating fast with excitement; here was a revelation indeed! That the shrewd Hebrew, whom Robert Lomax had accidentally stumbled upon when travelling down to Leigh, should be also the friend and manager of the pugilist, who, beyond all doubt, was intimately connected with the queer mystery he and his partner had undertaken to solve, was something more than extraordinary. What would Lomax say when he became aware of the fact? To what ideas and suggestions did this curiously-acquired bit of information give rise!
Dennis began to congratulate himself; it was not for nothing that he had paid the visit to Wonderland that evening. More might come of it than he had anticipated. It was true, he might be flattering himself unduly; there might be no connection whatever between the various facts, but their coincidence led him to believe that some connection did exist, even though not immediately apparent.
"They've gone into the pub, guv'nor."
Punch's voice brought Dennis back to the immediate present. What was it he should do? He found himself at a loss—not for the first time since his assumption of the detective's part. He felt a trifle helpless. A detective's work was not a stereotyped, cut-and-dried business, where one knew a day or a week in advance what was to be done. His mind had to be made up in a moment, and then he did not know the course of action decided upon was likely to be successful. And he—Dennis—had had no training in the work.
They had halted within a few yards of the public-house whereinto McDonald and his companions had disappeared, and the East End youth was staring at his acquaintance with curious interest.
"S'y, guv'nor, what's yer game?" he suddenly demanded. "Who are yer? What's you got against McDonald? And why are yer pallin' on to me like this 'ere?"
"Because I think you may be of some use to me," Dennis replied frankly. "And at present I'm greatly interested in Mr. McDonald. I'm a detective—"
An expression of fear and suspicion shot into Punch's dark eyes, his jaw dropped.
"My stars!" he muttered; and he made a sudden movement, as if to bolt, but Dennis caught him by the arm and fixed him.
"Leggo—leggo!" panted Punch, and he made violent efforts to break away. "Will yer—"
"Don't be such a fool, you stupid fellow!" Dennis cried sharply. "What if I am a detective! I'm not going to hurt you!"
"'Tecs is—" began the fellow.
"I'm a private, not a police detective. I've got nothing to do with them," went on Dennis. "I want to find out something about McDonald, and I want you to help me, if you will. Nothing's going to happen to you. And I thought, as you have such a grudge against McDonald, you'd be useful for me. I shall pay you."
But Punch still remained frightened and incredulous. He had come within the hands of the law more than once; of three convictions against him the policeman at the station had spoken. Circumstances had been too much for him, and he had dropped into crime, like many another such youth, largely for the want of a helping hand, and because it was easier to succumb to the influence of his surroundings than to fight against them. His moral fibre had weakened, but he was not a born criminal. Under different circumstances, he would have been a respectable, hard-working young fellow, but he had won two or three boxing contests, and had given up his work to enjoy the gains so easily won. He had drifted into bad company; had degenerated into a loafer—a pickpocket when necessity or circumstances drove him. But he was not as yet so used to the police but that anything connected with them scared him badly.
He listened to Dennis with sullen fear, and at last he looked up.
"Honour bright, guv'nor; yer ain't meanin' to nab me?" he said. And the truly plaintive note in his voice saddened Dennis.
"Of course not; haven't I said so?" the young detective answered heartily. "Here, here's five shillings"—he took out an old envelope and scribbled a few lines on it—"and here's my address. Come there to-morrow evening, and I'll find something for you to do. Mind, I'm trusting you."
Dennis went back to "Maxennis's" office feeling very pleased with himself. It was late when he let himself in, and he was so tired and slept so heavily that he did not awake until long past ten o'clock, and the first thing that his eyes fell upon was the tall figure of Lomax standing beside him, a queer, satisfied smile on his strong face as he looked down at his partner, a toasting-fork in his hands, bearing a half-cooked round of toast.
"You!" Dennis cried, and started upon his elbow, scarcely able to believe his eyes.
"Yes," Bob said coolly. "I've solved the mystery, so I thought I might as well come back."
To say that Frank Dennis was surprised by the unlooked-for appearance of his chum is to do an injustice to the younger man's feelings; but Lomax's cool reply to his question left him speechless, absolutely flabbergasted—which is an expressive word, the meaning whereof is better understood than capable of description.
He dropped on his back again, staring at his chum, as if unable to feel quite certain that he was awake, and that he was looking at a being of flesh and blood, and not one created by his own fancy.
"What's the matter?" inquired Lomax. He had gone back to the fireplace, where a fire was burning cheerfully, and was assiduously completing the cooking of his breakfast.
"How did you get in?" Dennis's curiosity gave back to him the power of speech, though his blue eyes, fixed upon Lomax's broad back, had not yet regained their normal expression.
"How did I get in? With my key, of course! Came in to find you sound asleep and snoring—so sound that you never even stirred when I entered; nor have you moved all the time I've been moving about. Looks to me as if you'd been going it, young man, if you're not ready to get up until here—twenty minutes to eleven. You want me back to look after you and keep you in order. You're getting dissipated."
What time did you come in, Bob?"
"Time? Oh, about nine-thirty! Little before, perhaps. Caught the first train up from Leigh, and came on to get some breakfast. Wouldn't wait there to have some; wanted to tell you the good news. Ugh! You lazy rascal! Here, I've been out since five o'clock this morning! That's the way to get an appetite."
"And what's the good news, Bob? What was that you said? You've solved the mystery?" asked Dennis, sitting up in his camp-bedstead, and almost yawning the top of his head off.
"Tell you later," was Lomax's abrupt answer. "Got something better to do now. I want some grub! I haven't been gallivanting the streets all night, and not waking up until half a morning's work has been done, and, consequently, wanting no breakfast."