P.-C. Lee: Complete Series (ALL 24 Detective Stories in One Volume). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
with was a man by the name of Simmons. He moves into 64, Highfield Street, an’ I got a tip from headquarters to look after him. A quiet little man, who smoked a briar pipe, an’ went about his work sayin’ nothing to anybody.
“He was a bachelor so far as I could find out, an’ there was an old woman, who was his aunt, who kept house for him.
“The rum thing was that he didn’t associate with any of the ‘heads’.
“There was a nice lot of lads in my district. Nick Moss who did seven years for armed burglary; Teddy Gail, who did five for runnin’ a snide factory*; Arthur Westing, the tale-pitcher — Lord! I could fill a book with their names.
>[* A counterfeit coin manufactory.]
“Somehow, they knew he was in a queer line of business, an’ naturally they tried to be friendly with him — but he had nothin’ to do with them, an’ that made ’em wild. They tried to find out what his lay was, but he was as close as an oyster. They came to me, some of ‘em, an’ worked the conversation round innocently to Simmons.
“Nick Moss was the most curious.
“‘That’s a queer chap in 64, Mr. Lee,’ he says. ‘Can’t make him out.’
“‘Can’t you?’ says I.
“‘No,’ says Nick, shakin’ his head. ‘Do you think he’s quite straight, Mr. Lee?’
“‘I hope so,’ says I. ‘It’d be a dreadful thing if a dishonest feller came into this pure an’ innercent neighbourhood corruptin’ the morals of its upright citizens.’
“‘It would,’ says Nick.
“To tell you the truth, I had no more idea of what Simmons’ game was than they had. My instructions were worded rather curiously. ‘Watch Simmons, but don’t interfere with him.’
“I thought once that he must be a nark*, but the station Inspector told me he wasn’t on the books, an’ none of our C.I.D. men knew him. All I knew about him was that from time to time he used to go away for two or three days at a time carryin’ his little brown bag an’ smokin’ his pipe. My mate, who’s an energetic young chap, stopped him one night when he was coming home an’ asked to see inside of his bag.
[* Police spy.]
“But there was nothin’ except a paper of sandwiches an’ a couple of short luggage straps. The sandwiches was wrapped up in a paper that bore the name of a Chelmsford confectioners, an’ we watched for the Chelmsford report to see if there had been a burglary — but nothin’ appeared. I ‘don’t know whether Simmons reported the matter; so far as we knew at the station he didn’t, but a few days afterwards my mate was transferred to ‘R’ Division, and got a nasty letter from the Yard tellin’ him not to exceed his duty.
“One night, soon after this, I was standin’ on duty at the corner of Ladbroke Grove, when a woman came to me sobbin’.
“I recognised her at once. She was the wife of Crawley Hopper, a chap well known to the police as a ladder larcernist.*
[* A “ladder larceny” is a definite form of housebreaking. Whilst a family is at dinner a ladder is placed against a bedroom window, the thief enters and clears the bedroom of portable valuables.]
“‘Mr. Lee,’ she sobs, ‘look at my eye…!’
“‘I wouldn’t mind the beatin’,’ she says, ‘but he’s took up with another girl.’
“‘Go home to your mother, Mrs. Hopper,’ I says, ‘He’s in drink an’ he’ll be sorry in the morning.’
“‘He’ll he sorry tonight,’ she says savagely, ‘because he was the man that did the Highbury job last Wednesday.’
“‘Oh!’ I says — we’d been on the lookout for the man who did the Highbury job—’in that case I’ll ask you for a few particulars.’
“The end of it was, I found Crawley in a little pub standin’ drinks all round. He had his arm round the neck of his new girl an’ I beckoned him outside.
“‘I want you, Hopper,’ I says.
“‘What for?’ says Hopper, as white as a sheet.
“‘The Highbury job. Come along quietly to the station.’
“‘It’s a fair cop,’ says Hopper, an’ went like a lamb.
“‘Who gave me away?’ he says.
“‘Information received,’ I answered.
“He nodded his head.
“‘I think I know the lady’s name,’ he says, ‘an’ when I come out she’ll know mine,’ he says.
Crawley had lots of pals, an’ as soon as they found e’d been pinched, they had a whip round to get the money together for a mouthpiece (as they call a lawyer), an’ naturally they went to Simmons.
“From all accounts, Nick Moss an’ a feller named Peter called on him one night.
“‘We are making a collection, Mr. Simmons,’ says Nick, ‘for a friend of ours that got into a bit of trouble.’
“‘What kind of trouble?’ says the little man.
“He stood in the doorway in his shirtsleeves smokin’ his pipe most furious.
“‘To tell you the truth,’ says Nick frankly, ‘he’s been pinched.’
“‘By the police?’ says Simmons.
“‘By the police,’ says Nick.
“Simmons shook his head.
“‘It’s no good comin’ to me,’ he says. ‘I don’t pay a single penny to help criminals,’ he says, cool as a cucumber.
“‘What?’ says Nick wrathfully, ‘you undersized little crook! For two pins I’d scruff you!”
“An’ with that he reached out a handy left — but somehow it never reached Simmons, an’ before he knew what was what a pair of hands like steel clamps caught his arm, an’ he found himself chucked into the street, an’ the door banged.
Nick an’ the feller Peter waited for ten minutes bangin’ at the door an’ askin’ Simmons to be a man an’ come out an’ be smashed, but Simmons took no notice, an’ just then I strolled up and cleared away the little crowd that had collected.
“Nick was so wild that he wouldn’t go at first, but I persuaded him, first by kind words, an’ then by a smack on the head. After that I got the tip that the boys were waitin’ for Mr. Simmons to do him in, an’ when I saw him I gave him a friendly warnin’. He smiled as though the idea of his being done in was an amusin’ one, but knew our lads too well to see any joke in it.
“Sure enough they laid for him, six of the brightest boys in Nottin’ Dale.
“The first I knew about it was from hearin’ shouts of ‘Murder!’ an’’Police!’ an’ I ran as fast as I could, blowin’ my whistle.
“I found Simmons with his back to the wall, his head bleedin’ but grinnin’ cheerfully. He had a life preserver his han’ an’ two of the lads was sleepin’ peacefully on the pavement.
“‘Hullo,’ says Simmons, ‘just in time.’
“‘Was that you shoutin’?’ I says.
“‘Not me,’ says he, with a chuckle. ‘I rather think it was a gent named Moss — you’ll know him by the bump on his forehead.’
“They left Simmons alone after this. They used to scowl at him, an’ he used to grin at them, but they never tried any more tricks. Nick Moss was rather bitter.
“‘A little feller like