Murder Mysteries for the Holiday Season. Джером К. ДжеромЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 sound 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 pocketbook.
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 pocketbook. 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