Читать книгу The Man Who Changed His Plea - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

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The commissionaire's whistle shrilled up the street and a moment or two later a Rolls-Royce coupé was driven noiselessly to the entrance in obedience to its summons. Brockenhurst motioned to the chauffeur to get out. The man, dressed in a quiet, black livery, stood at attention; he neither saluted nor spoke. Brockenhurst pointed to the empty seat.

"I will drop you at the Albany," he said. "See that the garage door is left closed, but unlocked. I may be late."

The man's salute was more like an Oriental bow than a Cockney chauffeur's gesture, but he made no remark, took his seat, folded his arms, and preserved unbroken silence. He was by no means a striking-looking person, but he had the yellow complexion and the narrow, black eyes of the Oriental. There was also a complete vacancy of expression which only the Orientals can obtain. He slipped from his place at the Albany, turned gravely towards his master, bowed and disappeared in the direction of a neighbouring garage. Brockenhurst turned slowly round, drove down St. James's Street, crossed the Park, and when he reached the Embankment, turned to the left and slackened speed. A few yards away from an empty seat he drew up and stopped his engine. He leaned over the side of the car and looked steadfastly up and down the river. A few yards higher up were some worn and disused steps, leading down to the water.

A certain rigidity of expression left him. He produced his cigarette-case, selected a cigarette, tapped it lightly on the panelwork and lit it with the aid of a small gold lighter. The Embankment was now nearly empty. At its far extremity he paused and slowly brought the car to a standstill. Here was a coffee-stall, an old man behind it cutting slices from a loaf of bread, two great containers of fizzling coffee, and a little half-starved crowd of men and women hanging around, nearly all with the same destitute expression which hunger and thirst had graven upon their faces. Brockenhurst got out of his coupé and strolled over to the counter. He walked quietly and without the least touch of arrogance in his bearing. Nevertheless there was a strange look on the faces of some of the loiterers as they watched him.

"Good evening, Joe," he greeted the old man behind the bar.

The man glanced at him but did not pause in his task of cutting up the loaf.

"So you knows me, Guvnor," he remarked.

"I was a customer years ago," Brockenhurst told him.

The man shot a warning glance at the newcomer. The latter's coat was buttoned up to his throat, he was wearing a muffler, and his hat was one of the soft black homburgs which have taken the place of more offensive night wear, but his voice had just that touch of refinement which is calculated to annoy the owner of an empty stomach.

"I'm an old customer, Joe, and I am standing treat," he continued. "Serve out all you can and as quickly as you can. Gentlemen, and you, ladies," he added, lifting his hat as two flamboyantly dressed young women joined the gathering, "pray accept the hospitality of an old patron of Joe here. Get to work, my friend," he went on, turning to the man behind the counter. "You can add it up afterwards."

Joe grinned as he obeyed orders.

"There's something about yer voice, sir," he admitted, "that comes home to me. I'll grant yer that. Yer wouldn't be the first one of my old customers that struck it rich and come back to see old Joe. There was a policeman once on this beat who talked a bit like you."

"Never mind who I am," his generous patron enjoined him; "get on with serving the stuff. It's beginning to rain, and you don't want to have your customers getting wet through, waiting for their food. Here, give me that knife and fork; I'll cut up the ham for you."

With his cigarette a little in the side of his mouth and his hat, through contact with one or two others, a little on the back of his head, Brockenhurst carved up a ham with a speed and dexterity almost unbelievable. He piled it on to the top of the bread as fast as Joe could cut it. Suddenly the latter slackened in his work.

"It isn't a wise thing you're doing, you know, Guvnor," he warned him, leaning over the counter. "They've got their eye on you, some of these chaps. It's a pity you let 'em see that notecase."

Martin Brockenhurst grinned pleasantly. The expression with which he had looked into the black waters of the river had vanished.

"I don't think there's one of your customers would stick a knife into the back of their host, Joe," he said. "Besides, I've spent a winter or two in Chicago, and this place is a kid's toyland compared with that."

"Chicago," one of the loiterers on the outside of the circle repeated. "Are you a gunman then, Guvnor?"

"It isn't my profession exactly," Martin answered, glancing round with a good-humoured smile, "but I did take a few lessons in Chicago. I'm handy with a knife—see this."

With a sudden twist of his wrist the knife with which he had been cutting the ham flashed up into the air. There was a startled little cry amongst the crowd. In a second or two it came glittering down, a straight line of steel with the oil-lamp of the stall flashing upon it as it passed. The two girls screamed, the men were stupefied. Brockenhurst was continuing to cut the ham with the fork nicely balanced in his right hand and the knife in his left.

"It's a good trick that, you know," he said, continuing his task. "I had a few lessons from an American juggler—at least, he was an American by birth but he'd learnt his tricks in the Philippines. The catching of the knife coming down is easy enough, if you give it the right twist in the throw, but you've got to be devilish quick to change and get the knife in your left hand and the fork in the right when you've finished, though I'm better with a gun, perhaps."

"My God, Guvnor, you're hot stuff," one of the men growled from the outside of the crowd. "If I were one of the larky 'uns, like young Samuel here, and out for making summat on the push-push, you're the sort of gent I should leave alone."

"Who're you calling one of the larky 'uns?" his companion grunted menacingly. "As for the gent here, I can see it in 'is eye that 'e's going to 'and round a bob or two for us to get a can of beer or a drop of the hot stuff at the widow's."

"Hear, hear," someone in the crowd declared with enthusiasm.

"Well, I'm afraid, my young friend," Martin regretted, throwing the ham bone, from which he had stripped every handful of meat, to a hungry dog who was skulking round, "that you've got it wrong. I'm not quite that sort of a mug. There's a pound or two of tobacco there," he added, pointing to the shelves. "Hand it out, Joe—you're welcome to that; but no money passes except between Joe and me."

"What about us?" the girls cried, pushing their way towards him. "We can't eat baccy. You drive us home in that motorcar of yours, Guvnor, and we'll give you a drop of the real stuff, all free and for nothing. It's nothing but a step or two."

"Alas," Martin regretted, "tonight I am unable to accept your hospitality, dear ladies. I came to have a little private conversation with my friend Joe, but I have met so many old friends that the time has passed over-quickly. Hand out your stuff, Joe," he went on, turning to the owner of the stall. "Let 'em have the tobacco and fix your price for the lot. I want a word in your ear."

Joe scratched his head.

"To tell you the truth, Guvnor," he confessed, "you're fairly making me dizzy with all this adding up."

"We'll cut it short," Brockenhurst suggested. "Threepence each you said for the sandwiches. Well, there aren't more than a hundred of them, we'll say thirty shillings for that. Now, how about the ham?"

Joe leaned forward with his elbows upon the stall.

"That there ham, Guvnor," he declared earnestly, "cost me a sovereign and a half if it cost me a penny. I could have made fourpence on the bone, too, any day."

"Joe, my friend," his customer said reprovingly, "you are getting grasping. A man of your generosity and disposition should never rob the dog of its bone. We'll say four shillings for the bone, though—it was worth that to the dog. Now, you can't have served more than a hundred cups of coffee at tuppence—what about a fiver for the lot?"

The man squeezed himself an inch or two farther forward; his voice was hoarse with anxiety.

"I say it's a go, Guvnor," he agreed. "But for the love of Mike, keep that notecase of yours hidden. That's Tim Jordan in the background, the old middle-weight, you know, and that's Slimpy Dick whispering to him. Those other two were bad enough, but that Jordan, he's a killer; he'd kill a man for what you've got in that notecase."

"He won't kill me," was the confident reply. "There's the fiver, Joe. And good luck to you," he added.

He withdrew the fiver from the case without ostentation but with no attempt at secrecy. Then he laid an insistent forefinger on Joe's hand.

"Listen, Joe," he confided, "I want a piece of information from you."

"Gawd! This isn't police work, is it?" the stall-keeper gasped.

"Not a bit of it," was the scornful reply. "The piece of information I want won't bring any harm to anybody. I want to know what has become of Sarah Rose."

It was a warm night, with mists blowing off the river, but it was not warm enough to account for the sweat on Joe's forehead. He groaned audibly, his voice seemed blocked with some undescribable emotion.

"Gawd, Guvnor," he muttered, "you come here and ask me that! And you dressed like a prince, too, and a pocket-book full of notes, one of which would have saved that girl. I dunno, sir, I dunno where she is."

The man whom he had referred to as Tim Jordan and his friend Slimpy Dick were peering into the interior of the coupé. The girls, too, were standing looking at it; one of them caressing the mascot, but Martin was apparently taking no notice of them.

"You'd better try and remember, Joe," he suggested quietly. "Now let me put it plainly to you—there's a hundred pounds for news of that girl and there's a police cell for anyone who knows and keeps his mouth shut."

Joe sank down on to his stool.

"I believe you're nothing but a bloody dick, still," he muttered.

"Bloody dicks don't have a hundred pounds to offer," Martin said quietly. "I won't tell you why, Joe, for it's not your concern, but I want that girl."

"Girl! She was a lady, she was," Joe scowled. "She was as good as the likes of you for all your motorcar and your banknotes, Guvnor. Put that in yer pipe and smoke it."

Brockenhurst raised his hat.

"That may have been so," he agreed. "I salute her. I wish no harm to her, but I want to know where she is, Joe."

"You want her to tell you what she knows and nobody else knows," the old man cried savagely. "You want to ruin all that she's given her life for. I was something of a scholar before I came down in the world, young man. I knew something of France; I've read books. Did you ever hear of Joan of Arc?"

"I have," Martin admitted.

"She was a Joan of Arc," Joe declared, "and not for your damned lettercase or your bloody car would I lift a finger to help you find her. She's earned all she's got and that's all there is to it."

Martin stood quite still for a moment or two, watching the man's face. It was a queer position, his. He had had his own way with men most of his life, with men and women too. He had learned the trick of bending them to his will; he was used to success. This man's attitude, the stubborn rigidity of his words and expression, inspired him with a new sensation; he was brought up against failure, or at least temporary failure. Here, at this shabby, weather-beaten stall, with its torn tarpaulin top, its shaky wooden supports, its boards stained with the spilt libations of years—failure. Somehow or other it seemed to give him a fresh zest in life. It was a new sensation. He leaned over and patted the old man on the shoulder. The latter looked up wonderingly. He asked no question, but it was obvious that his anger was passing away, giving place to a growing curiosity.

"I'm not going to bother you any more this morning, Joe," his visitor promised. "I may come back again or I may see if I can find out all that I want to know without your help."

Joe's expression suddenly changed. He thrust his hand into his pocket and there was something gleaming between his worn fingers with their broken nails, something that looked uncommonly like a police whistle.

"You'd better look after yourself, Guvnor," he advised quickly; "they'll be off with your car in a moment."

Martin swung round. Mr. Tim Jordan had taken up an aggressive attitude in front of the car. His friend Slimpy Dick was inside, struggling with the self-starter. Four or five of the others of the crowd were hanging round, but most of them had hurried off with their gifts. The girls were undecided. They were hesitating whether to side with the gent and to stand being half-beaten to death by Tim Jordan and his friend or to jump into the car. They were saved from a painful decision by the swift development of events. Joe's police whistle was blowing and the gent, with half a dozen rapid paces, was standing before Jordan.

"Get out of the way," he ordered, "and you fellow in there, get out of my car."

That was the moment when for ever Tim Jordan lost his position as cock amongst the bullies of Swan Alley on the other side of the bridge towards Bermondsey. The way it happened was almost too quick for comprehension, but in less than thirty seconds Jordan was lying in the gutter, Slimpy Dick had been dragged out of the car and thrown half-way across the causeway, and the car, as though obedient to its owner, obeyed the touch of his forefinger and was ticking away harmoniously.

"Good night to all of you," Martin called out, looking out of the window. "Better make yourselves scarce or I may have to see you at Bow Street."

There were half a dozen policemen hurrying from different directions. Martin and his car had disappeared.