Читать книгу The Guv'nor and Other Stories - Edgar Wallace - Страница 7

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ALMOST everybody associating with the criminal world had heard of "the Guv'nor." Scotland Yard referred to him jestingly. Inspector Gaylor did not believe in governors, except the "guv'nors" who ran the whizzing gangs, and he was acquainted with them because he had met and testified against these minor bosses, and had had the satisfaction, which only a policeman feels, in seeing them removed in the black van which runs regularly between the Old Bailey and Pentonville Prison.

But the real Governor, the big man, was a myth, a mariner's tale. Even when the jewel robberies began to assume serious proportions, nobody dared suggest that this visionary character had any connection with the crimes.

But to hundreds of lawless men, who spent the greater part of their lives in the cells of convict prisons, the Governor was a holy reality. He was immensely wealthy, he paid large sums to poor guys for their work and spent fortunes to keep them out of prison. At the very suggestion that a newcomer to Dartmoor was a highly paid lieutenant of the Governor, he was treated with respect which amounted to reverence.

This shining and radiant figure was, alas, unreachable. Nobody knew his identity. There was no channel by which a poor and bungling burglar might approach his divinity. They told stories about him—half-true, half-imaginary. He was a titled gentleman, who lived in a great house in the country and had his own motor cars and horses. He was a publican who kept a saloon in Islington. He was a trusted member of the C.I.D., who misused his position to his great advantage.

Certainly he chose discreet men to serve him, for never had any crime been brought home to him through the failure or loquacity of an assistant.

"The Governor!" said Inspector Gaylor scornfully, when there was first suggested to him the authorship of the Hatton Garden robbery. "You've been reading detective stories. That's Harry Dyall's work."

But when they pulled in Harry Dyall, his alibi was police-proof, and the more closely the crime was examined the more satisfied were the police that the robbery had been carried out by a master—which Harry was not.

"That's no corporal's job—it's a general's. If Bob Kressholm was in England I should say it was his," said Gaylor, who was called in by the city police.

It is very difficult for the police to believe in organised systems of crime carried out under the direction of one man.

"They meet in a dark cellar, I suppose," he sneered at the subordinate to whom the Governor was becoming a reality. "Wear masks and whatnots. Get that idea out of your mind, Simpson. Those things only happen in books."

The Governor and his general staff did not meet in dark cellars, nor did they wear masks. There is a big hotel near the Place de l'Opera in Paris which is rather noisy and rather expensive. The noisiest of all the rooms is the big saloon situated in one corner of the block. Here the incessant pip-squeak of taxi-cabs, the deep boom of motor horns, the thunder and ramble of cumbersome omnibuses are caught and amplified.

Four men played bridge; a fifth, and the younger, looked on impatiently.

The eldest of the four helped himself to a whisky and soda from a little table at his side, and threw down a card. The others followed suit mechanically. Nobody worried about the game. The cards might be convenient if some unexpected visitor arrived, though it was very unlikely that any such interruption would come.

"They called in Reeder over that Hauptman job of ours—you know that, Tommy?"

The man he addressed nodded.

"Reeder?" asked the young watcher. "Isn't he the fellow who pinched my father?"

Bob Kressholm nodded.

"Reeder is hot, but he doesn't as a rule touch anything but forgery. You needn't worry about him, Danny. Yes, he pinched your father. You owe him one for that."

The young man smiled.

"I remember—Wenna loathes him" he said. "Funny how women hold on to their prejudices. I was talking to her last week—"

Bob Kressholm's eyelids snapped.

"Talking to her—was she in Paris?"

For a moment Danny was embarrassed.

"Yes; she came over with her father to see a turn at the Hippique."

Kressholm was about to say something, but changed his mind.

"Anyway, Reeder's working with the police—he is in the Public Prosecutor's office now. You're not known in London, are you, Peter?"

Peter Hertz grunted something uncomplimentary about South Africa, a country where he was known, and Kressholm chuckled.

"Fine! But they don't send their prints over to Scotland Yard, so you're safe. Now listen, I've got a job for you boys..."

They listened for half an hour, and under his direction drew little plans on the backs of bridge markers. At eleven they separated. Danny Brady would have gone too, but the other asked him to wait behind.

"Stay on—I want to talk to you, kid." Kressholm was greyer than he had been when Red Joe went down for his ten.

"Why didn't you tell me Wenna was over?" he asked.

Danny looked uncomfortable.

"I didn't think you'd be interested, Bob," he said. Kressholm forced a smile.

"Always interested in Wenna—she doesn't like me. I saw her a couple of months ago and she treated me like a dog! God, she's lovely!"

That came out involuntarily. Danny's discomfort increased.

"She said nothing about me?" The young man lied with a head shake. "You and she are good friends, eh?"

"Why, yes. As a matter of fact, I gave her a ring—"

Kressholm nodded slowly; his blazing eyes were fixed on the carpet lest they betrayed him.

"Is that so? Gave her a ring? That's fine. I suppose you'll be thinking of throwing in your hand after this and settling down, eh? There's circus blood in you too."

Danny's face went red.

"I'm not going back on you," he said loudly. "I owe a lot to you, Bob—"

"I don't know that you do," said the other.

Here he did an injustice to himself as a tutor. For five years he had revealed wrong as an amusing kind of right, and black as an artistic variant of white. Crime had no shabby background in the golden flood-light of romance; its shabby rags, in the glamour with which he had invested them, became delightful vestments.

"You're doing the job—you're the Big Shot in the game, Danny. I wouldn't trust anybody but you. And talking of big shots—"

He went into his bedroom and came back with something in his hand that glittered in the lights of the chandelier.

"That's the first time I've trusted you with a gun. Don't be afraid to use it—you're not to get caught. There will be three cars planted for you with the engines running. I'll give you the plan. I'll have an aeroplane just outside of London. If you're pinched, don't worry: the Governor will get you out."

"That's the first time I've trusted you with a gun. Don't be afraid to use it."

The young man examined the revolver, fascinated. His hand trembled; he had a moment of exaltation, such as the young knight must have felt when the golden spurs were fastened to his heel.

"You can trust me, Governor," he breathed; "and if there's no get-out, send me the Life of Napoleon."

The Life of Napoleon had a special interest for the Governor's friends.

He stayed on for an hour whilst Bob talked about West End jewellers, their peculiarities and weaknesses...