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The Scallywags

THE Mixer walked aimlessly along the Strand. Shabbily dressed, with black-rimmed spectacles, a bundle of books under his arm, he looked for all the world like a student not too well off who had strayed out of King's College and found time hanging on his hands.

He stopped at every other shop and looked in the window, and once, moving on, he collided with a girl who had come out of a doorway leading to one of the upper storeys of a tobacconist's. He raised his hat with an apology, but the girl hardly looked at him. Her face was white, and evidently she had been weeping, and Anthony lifted his gaze from her face to the doorway, where, on a decorous brass plate, was inscribed the name of Mr. Oliver Digle, financier.

Oliver Digle, financier, was not unknown to The Mixer. His name had figured in more law cases than had that of any other money lender, and Anthony's natural antipathy to the class was quickened by the sympathy he felt towards the girl.

He followed her, quickening his pace. He thought she was going to Charing Cross Station, but she turned down Villiers Street, crossed the road at the bottom, and entered the Embankment Gardens. She seemed to be seeking for some quiet spot where she could sit, and Anthony kept his eye upon her until he saw she was seated. Then, without any word of apology, he sat by her side, opened a book, and was apparently engrossed in his studies.

He saw out of the corner of his eye the quick resentful glance the girl gave him, and her hesitant movement, as though she were going to move to some other seat.

"One moment, please," he said quietly. "And would you be good enough to believe that I do not wish to be offensive?"

She looked at him in alarm.

"I know it isn't the thing for a strange man to address a girl in a public place," said Anthony with a smile, "but you need not fear that I shall insult you. That quiet-looking gentleman over there, reading the afternoon paper as though he had no interest in life but the winner of the two-thirty race, is an eminent detective from Scotland Yard, whilst the uniformed attendant you can see from where you sit. If I in any way annoy you, you can always call upon them for assistance."

She smiled a little against her will.

"I don't want to be rude, either," she said, "but I must tell you that I have no desire to enter into conversation with anybody, whether it is a stranger or a friend."

He nodded.

"That I can well understand," he said, "but I rather fancy that you need a friend outside the circle of your acquaintances. You've had trouble with Digle?"

She looked startled.

"How did you know?" she asked.

"I guessed," he said. "Has he been putting the screw on you?"

She frowned at him.

"Were you there?" she asked quickly. "Do you know Mr. Digle? Has he sent you?"

He shook his head again.

"No, I do not know Mr. Digle personally, but I know something of his amiable character. I gather that you are one of the unfortunate people who have got into his clutches, and my only object in speaking to you is to ask whether in any way I can help you."

It was her turn to shake her head.

"No," she said, curtly. "I'm afraid you cannot help me. Oh, I've been a fool!"

"We've all been fools more or less," he said cheerfully, "at some time in our lives. Now won't you, as a great favour, tell me just what your trouble is?"

She was silent for some time.

"I don't know why I should tell you," she said, "but I've done nothing which the world cannot know, and will not know in a few weeks' time."

She told him she was the widow of a young officer who had been killed in the war. Her husband had left her a little house in the country, and a few hundred pounds of his savings.

"Poor Ted was a good fellow, though very careless," she said, "and I had not the slightest idea that he owed money to Mr. Digle. But apparently he had borrowed a thousand pounds a few weeks before he was killed. I knew nothing of this until one day I received a visit from one of Mr. Digle's agents, who produced the promissory note, and demanded payment. I feel I must honour my husband's debt, but it will mean that I shall be left penniless."

"How much did your husband owe?"

"He borrowed a thousand and he had to repay two thousand," said the girl. "It's wicked, wicked!"

Anthony was jotting down a few particulars on the fly-leaf of his book.

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me where you live," he said, "the date the bill was drawn, and what your husband borrowed the money for."

She shook her head, and, after giving her address, replied helplessly:

"I am sorry I can't supply the particulars. They are as much of a mystery to me as they are to you. When Ted borrowed that money, I know he had a balance at the bank, and why on earth he should have gone to a moneylender I cannot tell. Of course, he may have had responsibilities which were unknown to me, but I cannot imagine he would not have told me."

"Thank you very much," said Anthony. "Now I won't bother you any further. I have an idea at the back of my mind that you are being swindled, and my advice to you is not to pay a penny until you hear from me. Have you got a lawyer, by the way?"

"No," she said, "I haven't employed a solicitor."

"Well, you'd better start," said Anthony, bluntly. "I suppose you know that a man who conducts his own case has a fool for a lawyer, and though I would not be so ungallant as to say the same of a woman "—he smiled—"you can't have too much professional advice."

"Where shall I let you know?"

This was a question which considerably embarrassed The Mixer.

"I am staying with some friends at the Hotel Rex in Brighton," he said. "Perhaps you would wire me there."

The little interview had made a deep impression on him, and he missed the train to Brighton, which he intended taking, and made a call upon a private detective agency, which had done very useful work for him without being aware of his identity, or the nefarious character of the undertakings which he had carried out.

"Oh, yes," said the cheery head of the detective bureau. "I can tell you a great deal about Digle. He's been in pretty low water lately."

"Stock Exchange?" asked Anthony.

"No, sir," said the detective. "No, sir. It's betting. They tell me he's lost nearly a hundred thousand pounds in two years. You wouldn't think that a stout old buffer like Digle would go in for that kind of nonsense, but such is the case."

"Is he straight?" asked Anthony.

"As straight as the majority in some things."

"That means to say," said Anthony, "that he's as crooked as blazes. Have you heard any complaints about him?"

"No," said the detective, after a moment's thought. "Of course, he's had several cases that have nearly gone into the Courts, but he's settled them. I believe he did a big business amongst young officers."

"That's all I want to know," said The Mixer, and went to Brighton.

The next day he called at the girl's little cottage at Chorley, and heard more of her husband's life.

"Tell me," said Anthony, "when your husband was home on leave for the last time, did he receive any mysterious letters?"

The girl thought a while.

"No, I don't think so," she said, and then quickly, "Yes, he did. He had a letter from a lady in Pimlico which puzzled him. She asked for his autograph, and told him that she had heard of his fine work in the war. Poor Ted, of course, hadn't done any extraordinary work, and he was a bit puzzled. But he sent off the autograph; yes, he sent a letter, I think," said the girl. "If you will wait a little while, I will look through his correspondence. I have all the letters he had during the last year of his life."

She was gone some ten minutes, and then returned with a bundle, and from this she selected a letter written in a sprawling hand. It was addressed from Pimlico Road, and this address Anthony jotted down. He did not bother about the letter itself, but noted that the lady had signed herself "Caroline Smith."

The next morning he was at the address, to find, as he had expected, that it was a boarding-house. Mrs. Caroline Smith was apparently an elderly secretary, who worked in the city, and had long since left the establishment.

"Do you know where she works?" asked Anthony.

Yes, they knew she worked for a Mr. Digle.

That night Mr. Digle's office received a visitor. Mr. Digle was not waiting to welcome his caller, because he was at home, sleeping the sleep of the almost just.

The time was 1 a.m., and the visitor came through a back window, and began a most workmanlike survey of Mr. Digle's office. He broke open nothing, and apparently he disturbed nothing, yet for two hours he pored over papers which he took from a large safe in Mr. Oliver Digle's private office. Just before daybreak, he turned out the lights, took down the blanket which covered the window, selected his notes, replacing the documents in the order he had found them, locked up the safe, and went out by the way he had come.

A car was waiting for him on the Thames Embankment, and, a quarter of an hour later, driven by his secretary, who looked the last man in the world to be driving one fresh from a burglarious entry into private premises, he was on his way through Balham, following the Brighton Road.

It was at East Grinstead, where they pulled up for an early breakfast, that he gave Paul an account of his night's work.

"The thing is clear to me," he said. "Digle is not content with the money he can rook from the young bloods in this town, but he has been systematically presenting claims against the estates of dead officers. The bills which he produces are obviously forgeries, the signatures having been secured by this demand for autographs, and, according to his bank book—I saw his bank book—there's nothing wrong with him financially. The story of him losing hundreds and thousands of pounds is all nonsense, though I'm glad my sleuth put me on to that track, otherwise I might not have pursued my investigations into his affairs. The man has nearly eighty thousand pounds in fluid cash."

"What he seems to have done," said Paul, when he had heard everything, "is to have waited a reasonable time until the new estate was settled down before presenting his bill for repayment. Most of the people to whom he presented his account seem to have preferred paying up to allowing the name of their boys to go through the Court. I've never heard such a confoundedly mean trick in my life."

Anthony nodded.

"This is the sort of job in which you hope I need your assistance, isn't it, Paul?" he asked.

"It is, rather."

"Well, I may need it. Mr. Digle must be cleared out, lock, stock, and barrel. I want every penny he possesses. I may be able to repay a few of the people he's fleeced."

"That appeals to me," remarked Paul. "May I ask how you intend to get it?"

"Of course, Digle isn't the only man who's been doing this sort of thing," Anthony went on. "I heard of two or three cases where disreputable moneylenders have been dunning the relatives of dead officers."

"And how are you going to get it?" asked Paul, again.

"That will come," said Anthony, grimly. "I'm going to study Mr. Digle, and if at the end of a day or two I haven't found a way of transferring his portable possessions to my pocket my name's Schmidt."

Mr. Oliver Digle was a methodical man with a methodical mind. He was a past master in the art of economical living, and it was his boast that he had never wasted a halfpenny. He was a fat and red-faced man, with faded blue eyes and thin, faded brown hair, and he dressed in the manner of a churchwarden. Nobody could deny that he was a most sympathetic man, with a willing ear and a willing purse for the voluble and needy.

It is true that something more than volubility was required of the needy, as he asked for and usually obtained the highest references and the most tangible security for every penny he loaned. He had two passions: the one was for making money, and the other was for losing money. It was perfectly true that he had lost fairly heavily on racing, but even the great have their weaknesses, and did not Homer nod?

He was a secretive man, too, and banked with the most secretive bank in London—Pollack's Private Bank, which had enjoyed a reputation for discretion for over a century. There had been ugly stories told about him, and disconcerting inquiries made by the official police. Nevertheless, Mr. Digle pursued his unruffled career, paying little and taking back much.

He sat one afternoon in his office with the evening paper spread before him, deploring inwardly the tendency of owners to "ready" their horses for Epsom, when there came a knock from the office of his one lady clerk—an elderly person, who looked more antique by reason of the powder which adorned her face.

"There's a young man to see you, sir," she said, dropping her voice.

"What sort of a young man?" asked Mr. Digle.

"I think he may be—a client. He looks very much upset," said the lady clerk.

Mr. Digle scratched his chin, and folded away his paper.

"Show him in," he said, for he did not despise even the smallest client.

The man who entered was obviously worried. His mouth was down-turned. The hour was 2.20—a circumstance to keep in mind.

"Well, sir," said Mr. Digle, benevolently, "and what can I do for you?"

The young man glanced at the lady in waiting, and at a nod from Mr. Digle she withdrew.

"I want to speak to you privately," said the visitor in an agitated voice.

"Sit down, sit down," said the benevolent Mr. Digle. "Pull up your chair to the desk and say what you wish. Have a cigarette?"

The young man took a cigarette with shaking fingers and lips.

"Mr. Digle," he began, "what I have to say to you must be sacred."

A melodramatic beginning, and Mr. Digle, not unused to such happenings, nodded.

"I have heard many secrets here," he said with truth; for in that very room he had interviewed and financed not a few of London's crooks. "Now, my lad, you can say just what you like, and you may be sure that it will not be repeated."

But the young man hesitated.

"Suppose," he said haltingly, "suppose this is a matter which affects the police?"

Mr. Digle smiled.

"It doesn't matter; if it doesn't affect me," he said good-humouredly. "I don't care how much it affects the police. You can take me into your confidence and make me your father-confessor, and be sure that not a word you utter in this building will be repeated outside."

The young man nodded.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Digle," he said gratefully. "I understood you were a gentleman one could trust."

"I hope I am," said Mr. Digle, curious to hear the other's story.

"First of all," said the visitor, "let me tell you that I have two thousand pounds' worth of war stock which I can convert to-morrow, and which I have here." He put his hand in his pocket and produced an envelope.

Mr. Digle was surprised. He was not used to people coming into his office who could produce two thousand pounds' worth of reliable security.

"I want a loan until to-morrow," said the young man. "I want exactly a thousand pounds, and I am prepared to pay a good interest, and leave this security with you until the morning."

"Well, there's no difficulty about that," said Mr. Digle, looking up at the clock. "The bank doesn't close till three o'clock, and when we've gone through this scrip, and I find it in order, I shall be most happy to give you a cheque for a thousand at, say, ten per centum."

He looked inquiringly at the other.

"I don't mind what the interest is," said the young man impatiently. "I must have the money almost immediately."

He stopped again. There was no reason, apparently, why he should go on. He had produced all the security that was necessary to obtain the loan. But Mr. Digle sensed a mystery about it all, and was anxious to probe the matter to the bottom.

"Now you're with a friend," he said emphatically, "tell me all about it."

"Well, I'll tell you, sir," said the young man eagerly, "because I feel that I ought to take your advice. I want the money to send my brother out of the country. He must leave this evening before they find out."

"Oh!" said Mr. Digle, jovially, "so your brother has been doing that which he shouldn't, eh?"

The young man nodded.

"He has been doing something which he should never have done," he said gravely. "He has committed what I believe to be the crime of the century. I can trust you, I know. I can see honesty in your face, and I feel that I have a friend in you, Mr. Digle."

Mr. Digle, secretly amused, smiled.

"The crime of the century seems rather a tall order," he said. "What do you call the crime of the century?"

The other looked at him.

"What do you say if he has robbed a bank of two hundred thousand pounds?"

Mr. Digle raised his eyebrows.

"I should say that was very nearly the crime of the century," he said.

"Oh, it's terrible, terrible!" moaned the young man. "This may mean ruin to hundreds of poor people. And what makes it more cruel is that my brother knew that the bank was shaky and yet persisted in his evil course."

"Well, most of the banks can stand that loss," said Mr. Digle. After all, it was not his affair. He was getting ten per cent, for a day's loan, and that worked out at something like three thousand, one hundred and fifty per annum. "What bank is it?"

"Oh, it's a private bank," said the visitor. "It wouldn't matter if it was one of the big corporations."

"A private bank," said Mr. Digle slowly. "What bank?"

"I don't want to tell you," said the young man, shaking his head.

"Come along, tell me," said Digle sharply. "What bank is it that is shaky and that has been robbed of two hundred thousand pounds?"

"Pollack's Bank."

The effect on Mr. Digle was electrical. He jumped to his feet, his rubicund face an ashen grey.

"Pollack's Bank?" he stammered. "Do you mean to tell me that that's been robbed, and is shaky? Do they know?"

"No, no," said the visitor, "they don't know, but they'll find out by to-morrow, and then heaven knows what'll happen. Probably the bank will break. I'm almost inclined," he said, "to go to the bank and tell the manager, and let matters take their course."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," roared Mr. Digle.

He leaped up, took down his hat from the peg, opened a drawer of his desk, and took out a cheque-book.

"You stay here till I return," he said. "I'm just going—I'm just going to get your money!"

He literally flew down the stairs, and jumped into the first taxi-cab. At twelve minutes to three he passed through the ancient swing doors into that more ancient interior of one of the few private banks which had weathered the financial storms of a century. He made his way straight to the grey-haired cashier, who greeted him with a nod.

"Will you kindly tell me my balance?" said Mr. Digle, with an anxious glance at the clock.

"Certainly," said the courteous cashier, and left him. He came back in five minutes and passed a slip of paper under the rail.

"Seventy-nine thousand, eight hundred and forty-two pounds," read Mr. Digle. He opened the chequebook and wrote. He passed the slip across the counter, and the cashier read it without any evidence of surprise.

"I see you have drawn the whole of your balance, Mr. Digle," he said, "I suppose you know that this practically closes your account?"

Digle did not trust himself to speak, but nodded.

Once that cheque was honoured, and the money passed across to him, Pollack's Private Bank could go to the devil for all he cared.

The cashier went away, and was absent for some time. Digle paced the tessellated floor of the bank impatiently. Would the manager come and plead with him to keep the money in? Had the secret leaked out? Would there be any trouble about paying over the money? None of these things happened. The cashier came back with a wallet, counted out seventy-nine thousand-pound notes as though they were seventy-nine pence, made up the odd money with smaller notes, ran his pen through Mr. Digle's signature, and went back to his business.

Digle put the money into his pocket with a trembling hand. It wanted two minutes to three. There was not time now to go to another bank, but he was capable of looking after his wealth.

As he came out through the swing door, somebody touched him on the arm, and he looked round. The person who spoke to him was naturally mild-looking, but on this occasion he wore a severe and authoritative air.

"You're Digle, aren't you?" he said.

"My name is Digle," said that gentleman with dignity.

"I'm Detective Rause, Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard," said the man, "and I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of forging the name of Edward Sinclair, and attempting to obtain the sum of one thousand pounds from his widow by means of a trick."

Mr. Digle gasped.

"What do you mean?" he said, when he had recovered his self-possession. "This is a disgraceful charge."

"Are you going quietly?" asked the man.

"Certainly," said Mr. Digle, and entered the waiting taxi.

The detective took his seat facing him.

"Put out your hands," he said.

"I protest—" began Mr. Digle, but before he could speak the steel handcuffs were about his wrists.

"When we get to Scotland Yard," said the detective, "you can protest as much as you like. I'm only doing my duty, you understand." He took a silver cigarette case from his pocket, lit a cigarette, then offered the case to Mr. Digle, who at first refused, and then, with a laugh, selected an Egyptian cigarette with his manacled hand.

"I suppose it's all in your day's work," he said good-humouredly, "but I think you'll discover how bad a mistake you've made."

The detective held a match to the cigarette, and Mr. Digle puffed steadily. It was at about the sixth draw that he noticed that the cigarette tasted queerly.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, and his voice was already very drowsy.

"You'll discover in time, Mr. Digle," said the "detective" cheerfully.