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The Scallywags

PONY NELSON had clicked, and it was the biggest click of years. It was a click that gave him precedence over all his contemporaries. It is a long story, and has little to do with this narrative, but some £35,000 was involved, and Pony, who was the prince of confidence tricksters and the greatest and most amazingly clever card-sharp that ever handled the "boards," made a clean job of it. There were sharings, of course, but Pony had had a good season, and could afford to behave handsomely to the rest of the gang.

He had planned a summer of idleness, a motor tour in the West of England, a few weeks up the river, and was actually negotiating for a shoot in Scotland, when Bradley, of the Central Police Investigation, gave him the office that big trouble was brewing, and that the indefatigable Detective Sennet, who gave his whole time and attention to such crimes as were Pony's speciality, was hot on his track, and needed only another scrap of evidence to put Mr. Nelson where the dogs wouldn't bite him or the cats disturb his slumbers.

Whereupon, Pony passed the word round, announcing that his passport was in order, and that he was leaving at an early date for the South of France, his plans having undergone revision, and there assembled at the Seven Feathers in Soho all that was best and brightest and most dexterous in what was colloquially known as the "Nelson Push."

Simmy Diamond, Colethorpe, May Bluementhal, and Chris O'Heckett were present at the sumptuous repast which Pony gave, and the wine passed freely. I give these names, few of which need be remembered, since the majority subsequently sank their identities in numbers. But the names are emphasised for the moment so that the reader may realise that The Mixer was not present. He was not a member of the "Nelson Push," though it may be said that he had very excellent information about Mr. Nelson, his habits, his weaknesses, and his plans.

"Lucky you!" said May, who sat at Pony's elbow. Pony chuckled.

"Well, things might be worse," he answered complacently. "But I hate going abroad with the season opening up, and money for nothing waiting to be picked up.

He shook his head with well-simulated regret, or perhaps his regret was not wholly simulated. Pony was a poseur, as all great artistes are. He responded to the atmosphere of adulation in which, for the moment, he had his being, or, vulgarly speaking, Pony was showing off.

"Yes," he went on thoughtfully, "there's lashings of money for you boys and girls, and, though you're welcome to it, I hate the thought of being out of the running."

He stopped, and a new light dawned in his eye.

"I'm leaving to-morrow," he said slowly, "by the eight o'clock train. My bag's packed and at the station."

He paused again, and the adoring company listened breathlessly, for Pony was a man of genius, and at times gave vent to memorable sayings, which were repeated even in the lower strata of rascaldom.

"This is going to be an expensive trip for me," said the whimsical Mr. Nelson, his eyes smiling mischievously. "By the time I get through, what with the railway fares, crossing the Channel, my expenses in Paris, tipping porters, etc., I reckon this trip will cost me a hundred pounds."

The statement was received with sycophantic smiles, for had not Pony the greater part of £40,000 stored away in various pockets, secret and open?

The girl was the first to divine his meaning.

"Don't be a fool, Pony," she said seriously. "Leave well alone. You go home and have a sleep and get away to France. I know what you're thinking about."

"What?" challenged Pony.

"You're going to do a job to bring you in your fare," she said. "You'll have all the busy-fellows* in the world waiting for you to-morrow morning at Victoria Station. Sennet's after you, and maybe a fool slip to-night will get you a lagging."

[* Busy-fellow or split-detective.]

Pony laughed.

"The splits have been after me for years," he said, "and they haven't got me yet, have they? And is it likely that I should go and ask for it at the last minute? No, May, if I do a job to-night it will be a safe one, and I am going to do it."

It was Simmy who added his warning to the girl's.

"It's asking for trouble, Pony," he said, shaking his head. "I've seen some of the best men in the business put away because they weren't satisfied with a lot, but wanted a bit more. It isn't as though you are unknown, Pony. Why, even the copper on his beat knows you are mixed up in these jobs, and it is only because they haven't proof that you haven't been pinched. Where-ever you go you're watched, and, what's more, it isn't like you to do a job without a lot of preparation and fixing. How can you cover yourself when you don't even know the kind of job you're going to do?"

The logic of this appealed to the professional instincts of the company, and there was a murmur of approval. But Pony Nelson was full of good vintage, and was, moreover, excited by the prospect of his holiday. It was true he had made a good picking—incidentally ruining one man and two women in the process of his enrichments. It was true that he had enough money to last him for two or three years, and that before him lay leisure and opportunity for planning still greater coups.

But he felt he had a reputation for daring and ingenuity to sustain, and he had great faith in his star.

"I think some of you people want holidays, too," he said sarcastically. "What's biting you all? You don't suppose I'm going to walk up to a goldsmith's shop, smash the window, and pinch a handful of watches, do you? Or do you expect me to go into Piccadilly, where the flatties are as thick as flies in a dustbin, and knock some old josser over the head? I tell you I'm going to get a hundred pounds to pay my expenses, and I'm going to get it easy."

He had no definite plan in his mind, but he was chockful of wine and optimism.

"What you want," growled Simmy, "is a blinking miracle."

And then the miracle happened.

The Seven Feathers café and restaurant occupied the ground and first floors. Pony had chosen the ground floor for his dinner, because it gave him opportunities of observation. The little dining-room was, in fact, a curtained recess, where there was only room for three small tables, or, as in the present case, one large one. The main room was occupied by a small bar, which had a reputation amongst connoisseurs for the excellence of the cocktails purveyed.

Moreover, from the ground floor, there were three exits, which was also a consideration with Pony, who, despite his apparent recklessness, was in reality a very cautious man. From where he sat he commanded, through a slit in the curtain, a view of the caf6, and even as Simmy growled his sardonic comment there passed before the field of Pony's vision two young men, who were making an unsteady way from the café entrance to the bar. Had he not seen them, he must have heard them, for one of them at least was verging on the noisy. Instantly alert, Pony reached out and increased the gap in the curtain. He was an opportunist to his fingertips, and somehow he sensed, in these new arrivals, a manifestation of the miracle at which the sceptical Simmy had scoffed.

He raised his hand for silence, but this precaution was unnecessary, because his guests had interpreted the look upon his face.

The noisy one of the pair of newcomers was arguing loudly with the bar-tender, his companion acting as echo. It was not unusual for the gilded youth of London to drift into the Seven Feathers, for the fame of its liquor was widespread. These newcomers were in immaculate evening kit. They were not only well, but foppishly attired. Their gold-headed canes were thrust under their arms, and from the pocket of the handsome and noisy youth dangled a watch, the face of which was set about with brilliants. His companion was slightly older, less handsome, less boisterous, but obviously not less inebriated.

"Wait," said Pony softly, and slipped out, for he saw his click.

He also was in evening dress, and wore it so well that he could never be mistaken for a waiter. He walked leisurely across the café floor, his hands in his pockets, a long cigar in the corner of his mouth, and, making no attempt to introduce himself to the strangers, addressed the barman.

There was no need to address them, for the youngest lurched towards him and laid a genial hand on his shoulder.

"Have this one with us, dear old thing," he said. "We've yards of money, and the night's young."

Pony returned an affable smile.

"I don't, as a rule, drink with strangers," he said.

"Forget all about that, old bird," returned the other. "The night's young, and it's my birthday."

"So it is—let's celebrate," added his friend, waving an unsteady hand.

Pony demurred, but accepted. There was a solemn drinking of healths, and then the first man who had addressed him thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a bunch of banknotes of such respectable thickness and of such high denomination—Pony saw out of the corner of his eye that they were twenties —that the clear-headed man made his plan on the spot.

Conversation was easy. The handsome young man did all the talking, echoed enthusiastically by his companion, and he talked about himself and his friend. He did not say as much, but Pony gathered that they were sons of men who had trafficked wisely and well during the period of the recent war. He gathered, too, that they were both in the army, but what interested him more than anything else was a little gamble which they conducted between themselves.

The process was simple. One young man put a folded note on the counter, and asked the other to guess whether the final number inscribed at the head of the note was odd or even. Pony left them to this interesting occupation and went back to his friends.

"The miracle has happened, Simmy," he said in a low voice, and then with a nod to May Bluementhal, "I shall want you, May. Is your flat in Albany Street available for visitors?"

She pursed her lips in doubt.

"You are not going to take them there, are you?"

He nodded again.

"I only want a hundred out of it, you understand," he said. "These kids have got a thousand, if they've got a penny."

The girl's face changed.

"That's a little different," she said; "What do you want me to do?"

Pony outlined his plan briefly. Presently he rejoined the boys at the counter.

"I'm afraid I must leave you, boys," he said. "I hate to do it, but I am dining with a lady, and if she sees you tossing she'll never leave you, because she is an inveterate gambler."

"That's the kind I like," said the boisterous one, but Pony shook his head.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said, as though a sudden thought had struck him. "Let us see her home, and then I'll introduce you to the daisiest night club in town."

The proposal was received with a howl of joy. Pony, going into the recess, reappeared presently with May, a diffident, modest, young lady, who had no other anxiety than to get home.

The young men, whose names Pony had not troubled to secure, had a taxicab waiting at the door, and the four drove off through the squally night, watched by the remainder of the gang.

"He's asking for trouble," said Simmy, coming back to the table. "I don't like it a bit. How do we know those two chaps aren't splits?"

"Splits!" sneered another of the gang. "Did you ever know a split that didn't look like a split? These are mugs!"

Beyond the fact that the young men insisted on singing all the way to Albany Street, nothing extraordinary happened, but when approaching her flat (in reality it was a very long way from her flat) May expressed a desire to stop and walk the remaining distance, even though a thin drizzle of rain was falling. The young men might be oblivious in the morning to all that had happened, but the taxi-driver, at any rate, was sober, and he could give information which would be distinctly uncomfortable.

The young men readily agreed to her suggestion and stepped out, paid off the taxi-driver, and four abreast, they walked along the deserted side walk until they reached the doorway, through which May passed, followed by the others.

The visitors found themselves in a very handsome apartment, but apparently they were not impressed. Pony managed to get the girl aside and spoke to her in a low voice. He returned to the roisterers.

"Miss Johnston does not want you boys to go until you have had a drink," he said, "but I think you've had enough already, haven't you?"

"Not a bit," said the talkative one, "and thank Miss Johnston on our behalf."

Pony hesitated.

"She wanted to know if you would play baccarat," he said, "but I shouldn't if I were you. She's awfully lucky, and, as I told you before, gambling is a passion with her."

"Baccarat," roared the younger, "is my long suit. Produce your cards, my lad."

"I don't want to play," said Pony, shaking his head. "As a matter of fact, I don't approve of gambling."

They smacked him on the back and dug him in the ribs and generally gave such evidence of their good spirits that he was prevailed upon to play.

The girl produced the cards from the "box," and the game began.

At first the young men won, but thereafter began a very steady decline in their fortunes. They paid up uncomplainingly, and the pile of notes under May's hand grew steadily, and Pony, making a mental calculation of his winnings, saw that not a thousand but thousand was coming into the pool, and mentally resolved to amend his arrangements with May.

Presently came the inevitable moment.

"I'm broke," said the elder of the two. "Lend me fifty, Anthony."

But the other shook his head.

"I've got this twenty pounds left and I'm going to play it," he said.

He played and lost, and for a while there was a deep silence, broken only by the rustling of the notes as the girl counted them with skillful and rapid fingers.

"Bad luck," said Pony cheerfully. "Now you boys must have a drink. Are you quite broke? I can lend you fifty to go on with."

But the young men waved aside his generous offer. May prepared the drink at the sideboard, and put it on the table. The young man who had done least of the talking walked slowly to the door, his hands in his pockets, whilst the other lifted his glass and sniffed it.

"Butyl chloride!" he said pleasantly, and Pony stared.

He stared more open-eyed when the other offered the glass to him.

"Drink that!" he said.

"What do you mean?" asked Pony.

"Drink it!" said the youth, and at that moment came the click of the door being locked.

Pony swung round in time to see the elder of the two take the key and put in in his pocket.

"What the deuce is the game?" he asked.

"Big game, Pony," said the man with the glass. "Drink this, or I'll drill your stomach full of rivet holes."

The girl made a dart at him, but the young man who had locked the door sprang to her and caught her in his arms.

"Let me go," she cried fiercely. "I'll scream for the police. Pony, what are you doing standing by and letting this—"

"Calm yourself," murmured the young man who held her.

"Yes, calm yourself," said his friend, "and whatever you do, don't send for the police. Pony will tell you why."

"Now what's your game?" asked Pony.

He was quiet now, and every sense awake.

"First of all," said the other, "let me relieve you of this money which you have so inhospitably taken from us by means of a stacked deck of cards."

He took the roll of notes from the girl's hand and put it in his pocket.

"You can have a long look at that drink, Pony," he continued, indicating the wine. "It has a knockout drop and the effect is very quick. Will you allow me just to outline your little plan of campaign with us? Having relieved us of our money, you were going to give us a little dope, strip us of all our possessions— that is to say, all the possessions you have not already taken—and leave us in some nice back street—I presume that you could have called all your pals to your assistance by means of the telephone. And when that was done, Pony, you were going off to France by the eight o'clock train to-morrow to spend your ill-gotten gains in riotous living. As a matter of fact, you've got your passport in your pocket, but, what is more to the point, you have the necessary funds to give you a jolly nice time."

"Well?" said Pony.

"Well?" drawled the other. "Before I make any request of you, allow me to introduce myself. I won't tell you my surname, because that would not interest you. Familiar as it may be, you can call me Anthony. Or you can call me The Mixer. My friend here is Paul. The third member of my company is at present sitting outside waiting patiently for our reappearance."

"Is that a bluff?" asked Pony.

"Not at all," drawled Anthony. "Sandy is the taxi-driver. He was my batman during the war, and a very good one, too. He prefers remaining with me to going back to work in a warehouse. I've also promised him that one day he shall retire rich: and I mean it, too. Also he deserves it, but I'm afraid you wouldn't appreciate his good qualities, nor his services to me and to his country, if I told you about them. As for myself and my friend here, you understand, Mr. Nelson, we are not young heroes who have been demobilised and find ourselves slighted by an apathetic world. We have been heroic enough," he said modestly, "and we have decorations which we would scorn to mention in view of our present nefarious employment. Paul there is an officer of the League of Honour, aren't you, Paul?"

Paul nodded.

"It is perfectly true that this country does not want us, and that our lives are made more difficult by the fact that we both left the army in unpleasant circumstances. Paul left hurriedly owing to the fact that he remained seven days in town longer than his leave allowed—and it is to his credit that when he went before the Court Martial he did not plead shell-shock. And I was kicked out of the army most ignominiously for punching in the eye a young person who wore the badge of provost marshalship, but was not entitled to any other decoration because he had not been to France."

"And now what is the game?" asked Pony again.

"I am out to make money," said Anthony. "I am the Invincible and Incomparable money-maker, and that is my motto. And I've discovered that the easiest way to make money is to take it from men of your kidney. That is why Paul, who is an extremely moral man, consents to act as my secretary, companion, and general assistant when required. In fact, if it wasn't that he lacks initiative and loves ease, he would have taken to rascal-skinning on his own account, being very unwilling to return to hum-drum pen-driving, and very tired of looking for it, when I met him. As it is, he is good enough to lend me his support and assistance in relieving people like you of their wealth, fellows who can't squeal and who have grown rich on robbery."

"You won't take anything from me," said Pony between his teeth.

"On the contrary," said the polite Anthony, "I shall take all I want from you, and all I want is all you have."

"By Heavens! I'll get you for this!" hissed Pony, and again Anthony smiled, but a little wearily.

"You've got to realise," he said gently, "that we have taken bigger risks than your vengeance represents for seven and sixpence a day. Sandy took them for less. Compared with the grimy and grisly Hun you are children in arms. There is nothing you can do to me that I can't do to you, and do it a little better," he explained. "I daresay you have a gang behind you who would lay for me one night and kick me to death if they ever caught me unprepared. They never will catch me unprepared, and they'll be wasting their time and labour and laying up a whole store of disappointments if they try that little game. Now then, Pony," his voice rang sharper. "Shell out!"

"I refuse—yes, point blank," exclaimed Pony, and sprang at him.

His whirling arms struck into the empty air, then the heavy barrel of a Browning crashed down on his skull, and Pony Nelson crumpled in a heap.

The girl had watched this scene in silence, her face white as death. Now, as Anthony leaned over the insensible figure and began searching the pockets, she spoke.

"I shall remember you," she breathed.

"What a pity!" murmured Paul, as he held one of her arms.

"I should be extremely disappointed if you did not remember," said Anthony, politely.

There was another silence, then—

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked.

"I am just going to leave you here," said Anthony. "That is the delightful thing about my method. I don't have to bind you or gag you or poison you or dope you, I just leave you to carry on. You can't shout for the police, because the police will come."

"Do you call yourself a man?" she asked softly.

"I call myself a gentleman," said Anthony with great solemnity.

The search was brief but lucrative. He piled six thick wads of notes on the table, slipped a big rubber band about the whole, and pushed them into his tail pocket.

He glanced round.

"I think we can go now, Paul," he said. "Sandy will be getting anxious."

He nodded pleasantly to the girl, who stood stock still, and passed down the stairs with his companion.

He opened the door and stepped back, for three men stood upon the doorstep, whilst a policeman waited at the foot of the steps. Only for a second did he hesitate, then he moved out, was pushing past the waiting men when one of them caught his arm, and an electric lamp was flashed in his face.

"Hello," said a voice, "who the dickens are you?"

"And who the dickens are you?" asked Anthony.

Then a voice in authority said impatiently,

"This is not the man. Who's his pal?" *

The electric lamp was flashed on Paul.

"That's not him either. What are you gentlemen doing here?"

"Before we go any farther," said Anthony, falling at once into the grave tone of an argumentative drunken man, "may I ask if there is any law which prevents me coming out of this door in the middle of the night?"

There was another awkward pause, then Detective Sennet, of Scotland Yard, said:

"All right, let them pass. They probably live in one of the flats above. You're sure this is the place?" he asked one of his companions.

"Certain, sir. I know May is in, because I saw the lights go up on the first floor."

"All right," said Sennet, then to Anthony, "Is that your taxi, gentlemen?"

'That's my taxi," answered Anthony. "Well, good night," said Sennet, and passed into the hall and up the stairs.

A few minutes later he dashed down again in search of the taxi, but The Mixer had disappeared.