The Just Men of Cordova/Chapter 10

was living at Somers Town at that time a little man named Jakobs.

He was a man of some character, albeit an unfortunate person with “something behind him.” The something behind him, however, had come short of a lagging. “Carpets” (three months’ hard labour) almost innumerable had fallen to his share, but a lagging had never come his way.

A little wizened-faced man, with sharp black eyes, very alert in his manner, very neatly dressed, he conveyed the impression that he was enjoying a day off, but so far as honest work was concerned Jakobs’ day was an everlasting one.

Mr. Jakobs had been a pensioner of Colonel Black’s for some years. During that period of time Willie Jakobs had lived the life of a gentleman. That is to say, he lived in the manner which he thought conformed more readily to the ideal than that which was generally accepted by the wealthier classes.

There were moments when he lived like a lord—again he had his own standard—but these periods occurred at rare intervals, because Willie was naturally abstemious. But he certainly lived like a gentleman, as all Somers Town agreed, for he went to bed at whatsoever hour he chose, arose with such larks as were abroad at the moment, or stayed in bed reading his favourite journal.

A fortunate man was he, never short of a copper for a half-pint of ale, thought no more of spending a shilling on a race than would you or I, was even suspected of taking his breakfast in bed, a veritable hall-mark of luxury and affluence by all standards.

To him every Saturday morning came postal orders to the value of two pounds sterling from a benefactor who asked no more than that the recipient should be happy and forget that he ever saw a respected dealer in stocks and shares in the act of rifling a dead man’s pockets.

For this William Jakobs had seen.

Willie was a thief, born so, and not without pride in his skilful-fingered ancestry. He had joined the firm of Black and Company less with the object of qualifying for a pension twenty years hence than on the off chance of obtaining an immediate dividend. He was guarded by the very principles which animated the head of his firm.

There was an obnoxious member of the board—obnoxious to the genial Colonel Black—who had died suddenly. A subsequent inquisition came to the conclusion that he died from syncope: even Willie knew no better. He had stolen quietly into the managing director’s office one day in the ordinary course of business, for Master Jakobs stole quietly, but literally and figuratively. He was in search of unconsidered stamps and such loose coinage as might be found in the office of a man notoriously careless in the matter of small change. He had expected to find the room empty, and was momentarily paralysed to see the great Black himself bending over the recumbent figure of a man, busily searching the pockets of a dead man for a letter—for the silent man on the floor had come with his resignation in his pocket and had indiscreetly embodied in this letter his reasons for taking the step. Greatest indiscretion of all, he had revealed the existence of this very compromising document to Colonel Black.

Willie Jakobs knew nothing about the letter—had no subtle explanation for the disordered pocket-book. To his primitive mind Colonel Black was making a search for money: it was, in fact, a stamp-hunt on a large scale, and in his agitation he blurted this belief.

At the subsequent inquest Mr. Jakobs did not give evidence. Officially he knew nothing concerning the matter. Instead he retired to his home in Somers Town, a life pensioner subject to a continuation of his reticence. Two years later, one Christmas morning, Mr. Jakobs received a very beautiful box of chocolates by post, ‘with every good wish,’ from somebody who did not trouble to send his or her name. Mr. Jakobs, being no lover of chocolate drops, wondered what it had cost and wished the kindly donor had sent beer.

“Hi, Spot, catch!” said Mr. Jakobs, and tossed a specimen of the confectioner’s art to his dog, who possessed a sweet tooth.

The dog ate it, wagging his tail, then he stopped wagging his tail and lay down with a shiver—dead.

It was some time before Willie Jakobs realized the connection between the stiff little dog and this bland and ornate Christmas gift.

He tried a chocolate on his landlord’s dog, and it died. He experimented on a fellow-lodger’s canary, and it died too—he might have destroyed the whole of Somers Town’s domestic menagerie but for the timely intervention of his landlord, who gave him in charge for his initial murder. Then the truth came out. The chocolates were poisoned. Willie Jakobs found his photograph in the public Press as the hero of a poisoning mystery: an embarrassment for Willie, who was promptly recognized by a Canning Town tradesman he had once victimized, and was arrested for the second time in a week.

Willie came out of gaol (it was a “carpet”) expecting to find an accumulation of one-pound postal orders awaiting him. Instead he found one five-pound note and a typewritten letter, on perfectly plain uncompromising paper, to the effect that the sender regretted that further supplies need not be expected.

Willie wrote to Colonel Black, and received in reply a letter in which “Colonel Black could not grasp the contents of yours of the 4th. He has never sent money, and fails to understand why the writer should have expected,” etc., etc.

Willie, furious and hurt at the base ingratitude and duplicity of his patron, carried the letter and a story to a solicitor, and the solicitor said one word—“Blackmail!” Here, then, was a disgruntled Willie Jakobs forced to work: to depend upon chance bookings and precarious liftings. Fortunately his right hand had not lost its cunning, nor, for the matter of that, had his left. He “clicked” to good stuff, fenced it with the new man in Eveswell Road (he was lagged eventually because he was only an amateur and gave too much for the stuff), and did well—so well, indeed, that he was inclined to take a mild view of Black’s offences.

On the evening of Lord Verlond’s dinner party—though, to do him justice, it must be confessed that Jakobs knew nothing of his lordship’s plans—he sallied forth on business intent. He made his way through the tiny court and narrow streets which separated him from Stibbington Street, there turning southwards to the Euston Road, and taking matters leisurely, he made his way to Tottenham Court Road, en route to Oxford Street.

Tottenham Court Road, on that particular night, was filled with interested people. They were interested in shop windows, interested in one another, interested in boarding and alighting from buses. It was an ideal crowd from Jakobs’ point of view. He liked people who concentrated, who fixed their minds on one thing and had no thought for any other. In a sense he was something of a psychologist, and he looked around to find some opulent person whose powers of concentration might be of service to himself.

Gathered round the steps of an omnibus, impatiently waiting for other passengers to disembark, was a little crowd of people, and Jakobs, with his quick, keen eye, spotted a likely client.

He was a stout man of middle age. His hat was placed at such an angle on his head that the Somers Towner diagnosed him as “canned.” He may or may not have been right in his surmise. It is sufficient that he appeared comfortably off, and that not only was his coat of good material, but he had various indications of an ostentatious character testifying to his present affluence. Willie Jakobs had had no intention of taking a bus ride. I doubt very much whether he changed his plans even now, but certain it is that he began to elbow his way into the little throng which surrounded the bus, by this time surging forward to board it.

He elbowed his way with good effect, for suddenly ceasing his efforts, as though he had remembered some very important engagement, he began to back out. He reached the outskirts of the little knot, then turned to walk briskly away.

At that moment a firm hand dropped on his shoulder in quite a friendly way. He looked round quickly. A tall young man in civilian dress stood behind him.

“Hullo!” said the young man, kindly enough, “aren’t you going on?”

“No, Mr. Fellowe,” he said. “I was going down for a blow, but I remember I left the gas burning at home.”

“Let’s go back and put it out,” said Constable Fellowe, who was on a very special duty that night.

“On second thoughts,” said Jakobs reflectively, “I don’t think it’s worth while. After all, it’s one of those penny-in-the-slot machines and it can only burn itself out.”

“Then come along and see if my gas is burning,” said Frank humorously.

He held the other’s arm lightly, but when Jakobs attempted to disengage himself he found the pressure on his arm increased. “What’s the game?” he asked innocently.

“The same old game,” said Frank, with a little smile. “Hullo. Willie, you’ve dropped something.”

He stooped quickly, without releasing his hold, and picked up a pocket-book.

The bus was on the point of moving off as Frank swung round and with a signal stopped the conductor. “I think some one who has just boarded your bus has lost a pocket-book. I think it is that stoutish gentleman who has just gone inside.”

The stoutish gentleman hastily descended to make a public examination of his wardrobe. He discovered himself minus several articles which should, by all laws affecting the right of property, have been upon his person.

Thereafter the matter became a fairly commonplace incident. “It’s a cop,” said Willie philosophically. “I didn’t see you around, Mr. Fellowe.”

“I don’t suppose you did, yet I’m big enough.”

“And ugly enough,” added Willie impartially.

Frank smiled. “You’re not much of an authority on beauty, Willie, are you?” he asked jocosely, as they threaded their way through the streets which separated them from the nearest police-station.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Willie, “‘andsome is as ‘andsome does. Say, Mr. Fellowe, why don’t the police go after a man like Olloroff? What are they worrying about a little hook like me for—getting my living at great inconvenience, in a manner of speaking. He is a fellow who makes his thousands, and has ruined his hundreds. Can you get him a lagging?”

“In time I hope we shall,” said Frank.

“There’s a feller!” said Willie. “He baits the poor little clerk—gets him to put up a fiver to buy a million pounds’ worth of gold mines. Clerk puts it—pinches the money from the till, not meanin’ to be dishonest, in a manner of speakin’, but expectin’ one day to walk into his boss, covered with fame and diamonds, and say, ‘Look at your long-lost Horace!’ See what I mean?”

Frank nodded.

“‘Look at your prodigal cashier’,” Jakobs continued, carried away by his imagination. “‘Put your lamps over my shiners, run your hooks over me Astrakhan collar. Master, it is I, thy servant!’”

It was not curious that they should speak of Black. There had been a case in court that day in which a too-credulous client of Black’s, who had suffered as a result of that credulity, had sued the colonel for the return of his money, and the case had not been defended.

“I used to work for him,” said Mr. Jakobs, reminiscently. “Messenger at twenty-nine shillings a week—like bein’ messenger at a mortuary.” He looked up at Frank. “Ever count up the number of Black’s friends who’ve died suddenly?” he asked. “Ever reckon that up? He’s a regular jujube tree, he is.”

“‘Upas’ is the word you want, Willie,” said Frank gently.

“You wait till the Four get him,” warned Mr. Jakobs cheerfully. “They won’t half put his light out.”

He said no more for a while, then he turned suddenly to Frank.

“Come to think of it, Fellowe,” he said, with the gross familiarity of the habitue in dealing with his captor, “this is the third time you’ve pinched me.”

“Come to think of it,” admitted Frank cheerfully, “it is.”

“Harf a mo’.” Mr. Jakobs halted and surveyed the other with a puzzled air. “He took me in the Tottenham Court Road, he took me in the Charin’ Cross Road, an’ he apperryhended me in Cheapside.”

“You’ve a wonderful memory,” smiled the young man.

“Never on his beat,” said Mr. Jakobs to himself, “always in plain clothes, an’ generally watchin’ me—now, why?”

Frank thought a moment. “Come and have a cup of tea, Willie,” he said, “and I will tell you a fairy story.”

“I think we shall be gettin’ at facts very soon,” said Willie, in his best judicial manner.

“I am going to be perfectly frank with you, my friend,” said Fellowe, when they were seated in a neighbouring coffee-shop.

“If you don’t mind,” begged Willie, “I’d rather call you by your surname—I don’t want it to get about that I’m a pal of yours.”

Frank smiled again. Willie had ever been a source of amusement. “You have been taken by me three times,” he said, “and this is the first time you have mentioned our friend Black. I think I can say that if you had mentioned him before it might have made a lot of difference to you, Willie.”

Mr. Jakobs addressed the ceiling. “Come to think of it,” he said, “he ’inted at this once before.”

“I ’int at it once again,” said Frank. “Will you tell me why Black pays you two pounds a week?”

“Because he don’t,” said Willie promptly. “Because he’s a sneakin’ hook an’ because he’s a twister, because he’s a liar—”

“If there’s any reason you haven’t mentioned, give it a run.” said Constable Fellowe in the vernacular.

Willie hesitated. “What’s the good of my tellin’ you?” he asked. “Sure as death you’ll tell me I’m only lyin’.”

“Try me,” said Frank, and for an hour they sat talking, policeman and thief.

At the end of that time they went different ways—Frank to the police-station, where he found an irate owner of property awaiting him, and Mr. Jakobs, thankfully, yet apprehensively, to his Somers Town home.

His business completed at the station, and a station sergeant alternately annoyed and mystified by the erratic behaviour of a plain-clothes constable, who gave orders with the assurance of an Assistant-Commissioner, Frank found a taxi and drove first to the house of Black, and later (with instructions to the driver to break all the rules laid down for the regulation of traffic) to Hampstead.

May Sandford was expecting the colonel. She stood by the drawing-room fire, buttoning her glove and endeavouring to disguise her pleasure that her sometime friend had called.

“Where are you going?” was his first blunt greeting, and the girl stiffened.

“You have no right to ask in that tone,” she said quietly, “but I will tell you. I am going to dinner.”

“With whom?”

The colour came to her face, for she was really annoyed. “With Colonel Black,” she said an effort to restrain her rising anger.

He nodded. “I’m afraid I cannot allow you to go.” he said coolly.

The girl stared. “Once and for all, Mr. Fellowe,” she said with quiet dignity, “you will understand that I am my own mistress. I shall do as I please. You have no right to dictate to me—you have no right whatever”—she stamped her foot angrily—“to say what I may do and what I may not do. I shall go where and with whom I choose.”

“You will not go out to-night, at any rate,” said Frank grimly.

An angry flush came to her cheeks. “If I chose to go to-night, I should go to-night,” she said.

“Indeed, you will do nothing of the sort.” He was quite cool now—master of himself—completely under control.

“I shall be outside this house,” he said, “for the rest of the night. If you go out with this man I shall arrest you.” She started and took a step back. “I shall arrest you,” he went on determinedly. “I don’t care what happens to me afterwards. I will trump up any charge against you. I will take you to the station, through the streets, and put you in the iron dock as though you were a common thief. I’ll do it because I love you,” he said passionately, “because you are the biggest thing in the world to me—because I love you better than life, better than you can love yourself, better than any man could love you. And do you know why I will take you to the police-station?” he went on earnestly. “Because you will be safe there, and the women who look after you will allow no dog like this fellow to have communication with you—because he dare not follow you there, whatever else he dare. As for him—”

He turned savagely about as a resplendent Black entered the room. Black stopped at the sight of the other’s face and dropped his hand to his pocket.

“You look out for me,” said Frank, and Black’s face blanched.

The girl had recovered her speech. “How dare you—how dare you!” she whispered. “You tell me that you will arrest me. How dare you! And you say you love me!” she said scornfully.

He nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said, quietly enough. “I love you. I love you enough to make you hate me. Can I love you any more than that?”

His voice was bitter, and there was something of helplessness in it too, but the determination that underlay his words could not be mistaken. He did not leave her until Black had taken his leave, and in his pardonable perturbation he forgot that he intended searching the colonel for a certain green bottle with a glass stopper.

Colonel Black returned to his flat that night to find unmistakable evidence that the apartment had been most systematically searched. There existed, however, no evidence as to how his visitors had gained admission. The doors had been opened, despite the fact that they were fastened by a key which had no duplicate, and with locks that were apparently unpickable. The windows were intact, and no attempt had been made to remove money and valuables from the desk which had been ransacked. The only proof of identity they had left behind was the seal which he found attached to the blotting-pad on his desk.

They had gone methodically to work, dropped a neat round splash of sealing-wax, and had as neatly pressed the seal of the organization upon it. There was no other communication, but in its very simplicity this plain “IV” was a little terrifying. It seemed that the members of the Four defied all his efforts at security, laughed to scorn his patent locks, knew more about his movements than his most intimate friends, and chose their own time for their visitations.

This would have been disconcerting to a man of less character than Black; but Black was one who had lived through a score of years—each year punctuated, at regular intervals, with threats of the most terrible character. He had ever lived in the shadow of reprisal, yet he had never suffered punishment.

It was his most fervent boast that he never lost his temper, that he never did anything in a flurry. Now, perhaps for the first time in his life, he was going to work actuated by a greater consideration than self-interest—a consideration of vengeance.

It made him less careful than he was wont to be. He did not look for shadowers that evening, yet shadowers there had been—not one but many.