CHAPTERCV.THE TWO DETECTIVES—CAPTURE OF A SMASHER—PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A DETECTIVE.Charles Peace, as he wended his way homewards after his escapade at Mr. Metcalf’s house, was almost bewildered with the singular adventure that had taken place.He could not in any way account for the altered position of the girl whom he had been so intimately acquainted with years before at Bradford.He could not fail to understand that she was altered in every way. Her manners did not appear to resemble those of the mill-hand who was at one time his constant companion.How the metamorphosis had taken place, and how she was able to assume the grace and demeanour of a well-bred woman to such perfection, was a matter he could not account for.He felt ashamed of himself, if he ever had any shame in him. The better term would perhaps be that he was deeply mortified.He had been foiled by a woman. He had let her have it all her own way, had given up the stolen property without a murmur or even so much as a feeble attempt to retain possession of it.This he did not so much regret, for after all it was but the loss of a few trinkets.He was too great an adept at his art to repine at being baffled in this instance, but he was very much chagrined at being looked down upon by one whom he had considered at an earlier day as an equal if not an inferior.“She’s done the trick, the saucy jade—done it to rights,” he ejaculated. “How she has managed it is another question. Well, I’m regularly queered, but I suppose I shall never know the rights of it—never.”He was of course in a terrible bad humour when he returned to his habitation in the Evelina-road, and half regretted not having returned with Bandy-legged Bill, for he would have given almost anything rather than have encountered Mrs. Metcalf.It was gall and wormwood to him to see her under the circumstances, but it was too late now—he could not recall the past; he had seen her, and the worst was over. He determined upon avoiding such another reincontre.Peace, as we have intimated more than once, had very little feeling in his whole composition, but he was at times a prey to jealousy, and he was most certainly both jealous and envious in this case—he was envious of Mrs. Metcalf’s superior position.As far as the woman herself was concerned, he cared perhaps but little about her; but he did not like to be lorded over—he did not like the tone of superiority she assumed, and it is likely enough, under any other circumstances, he would have hurled at her a perfect shower of epithets and virulent abuse. He was, however, unable to do so; upon meeting her in her own house, to use his own expression, he was regularly “floored.”Upon arriving at his own domicile he at once made for the stables. He found “Tommy” properly stalled, and the valuables he had purloined carefully secreted by the gipsy in the place he had named.So far all was satisfactory, and after seeing to this he retired to rest.The history of the two women—Mrs. Bristow and Bessie Dalton—is in many respects a romantic one. We have not taken note of them for a long time, but doubtless those who have perused these pages will remember that a number of Bank of England notes were found secreted in a looking-glass—behind the plate and back-board of that useful piece of furniture.The notes represented in the aggregate many thousands of pounds.When Mrs. Bristow and her faithful companion and friend, Bessie Dalton, arrived in London they changed their names, as they had changed their condition in life.Mrs. Bristow, although the wife of a working engineer, was tolerably well connected, certainly better than most women in the same walk of life.She took an elegant suite of apartments in Brook-street, Grosvenor-square, and having ample means at her disposal, she lived in good style, and in the due course of time contrived to get introduced into society, as it is termed—that is, she became acquainted with people who moved in the upper circles.Bessie passed as her younger sister, and as time went on they both improved, became more polished in their manners, dropped provincialisms as much as possible, and really turned out very creditable specimens of unostentatious gentility, and were pretty generally liked, for their kindliness of heart and unobtrusive manners and demeanour.They were introduced to Mr. Metcalf, a rich city merchant, and frequently paid visits at his house at Greenwich.He was seized with a sudden fit of illness—a virulent fever.Bessie Dalton volunteered her services as nurse, and her attention was so unremitting, her gentleness was made so manifest on many occasions, that it laid the foundation of a deep and endless love which found its way into the heart of Mr. Metcalf.The result of all this was an offer of marriage, and Bessie Dalton became the wife of, as she told Charles Peace, an honourable gentleman.Soon after this Mrs. Bristow found a husband in the person of an obese widower, with two daughters.This is a brief account of the factory hands who rode to rank and fortune upon a bundle of bank notes found in the looking-glass of a deceased miser.The history is a romantic one, but not more so than we find in the affairs of every day life. Life is full of romance to those who have the wit to see it, and the one we have been describing is based on fact. This the writer could prove beyond all cavil.But our scene shifts to other characters in this veritable history.Mr. Shearman, who had so industriously and cleverly ferreted out the murderer of the American planter’s daughter, was, as a matter of course, much chagrined when he heard of Doctor Bourne’s suicide.Justice had been baffled and baulked. It is true the end would have been much the same—with this difference, however, instead of coming by his death from the effects of prussic acid, the doctor would have had to meet his fate on the public scaffold.Mr. Shearman, in common with the majority of his countrymen, had a certain amount of respect, or, it might be said, admiration for the mother country; he therefore embraced the opportunity afforded him of seeing something of London life before he returned to the United States. He was, as we have already seen, on the best of terms with our old friend Wrench, and at the latter’s instigation he had put up at Sanderson’s Hotel, where, it will be remembered, Peace sojourned for a short period after his leaving Broxbridge. The buxom widow, Mrs. Sanderson, made the American and the persons he had under his charge—these being the witnesses in the Bourne case—as comfortable as possible, and Mr. Wrench generally dropped in on those evenings upon which he was disengaged to have a friendly chat with Shearman.To all appearance the American detective liked the old country so well that he was loth to leave it. Anyway he remained as long as circumstances would warrant.The day, however, was drawing nigh upon which Mr. Shearman was destined to take his departure.“The best of friends must part,” said he, as Mr. Wrench dropped in on the evening before the appointed time. “I’ve enjoyed myself and seen more of the old country than I ever expected to do this journey, and I have to return you many thanks, Wrench, for all the trouble you have been at on my behalf. If you should ever have to come to the States the first person you will inquire for, I hope and trust, will be me.”“That you may rest assured of.”“It’s turned out a bit of a frost this business, but it can’t be helped. Confound old Bourne for making away with himself, say I.”“He’s gone to that bourne from whence no traveller returns,” observed Wrench, with a smile. “Excuse the pun.”“I’d excuse anything in you; but now you have come we’ll make a night of it, as possibly it may be the last we shall be able to pass together for one while.”“Can’t be done just now,” returned Wrench. “Have a little matter on hand.”“The devil! What—something particularly urgent?”“Rather so.”“What might it be, if it’s a fair question?”“I’m after an old scoundrel whom I hope to take to-night—he’s a well-known thief. We’ve got one or two cases against him.”“What’s he been up to, then?”“Oh, his old caper—smashing.”“Are you going to pull the string this evening, then?”“Yes, in less than half an hour.”“And after then?”“Oh, well, then I shall be at your service.”“Very good then, I’ll wait here for you—shall I?”“Just as you like; or you may go with me, if you prefer it.”“I should much prefer it—very much.”The two detectives in a few minutes after this sallied forth from Sanderson’s hotel in quest of the “smasher.”“He’s an old hand, I suppose,” said Mr. Shearman.“Old hand, bless you, yes; he’s been a thief all his life, but he’s a stranger to me, or rather was, but a few days ago. I saw a chap yesterday, who had six years’ penal servitude; met him by chance in the street. He is leading an honest course of life now, and has been doing so for some years. He’s one of the few that have reformed. Well, this old scoundrel, whose arrest for smashing I am bent on I did not know much about. Well, as I was saying, I met the other one, whose name is Kedge. I asked him if he knew anything about my ‘smasher.’”“Know? Of course,” said he. “Why you know who he is—don’t you?”“Well, no, I can’t say that I do.”“He had ten years for breaking into a public-house in Oxford-street sixteen years ago. Well, after his return from transportation, he goes to the public, calls for something to drink, and as he stood in front of the bar he asked the landlord if he kept the house sixteen years before. ‘No,’ says the landlord, ‘I did not.’ ‘Sure on it,’ says Hardy—that’s his name, though he calls himself Mr. Dawes—‘sure on it?’ says he.”“Quite sure,” says the landlord, “who, I fancy, suspected something was wrong.”“Well, then, I b’lieve you’re telling a thundering lie. Do you remember charging a man with burglary sixteen years ago?”“No, I do not,” says the landlord. “I never charged anyone with burglary in all my born days.”“I’m glad on it,” said Hardy, “for if you’d been the man as got me convicted of burglary, I’d have had yer life—that’s all.”“You see, Mr. Wrench,” said Kedge, “Hardy wasn’t sartin about his being the same man, and it’s likely enough the landlord saved his life by declaring he was not the person who kept the house sixteen years before. Of course he was greatly altered in his appearance—so much so that the returned convict did not know him.”“It was lucky for the bung,” observed Shearman.“Very lucky, for he’s a desperate old scoundrel is this Dawes, as he now calls himself, but I shall be able to prove several previous convictions against him, I’ve no doubt, but let me make sure of my man first.”Mr. Wrench made the best of his way to Drury-lane. In one of the narrow turnings, which led from that place to Great Wild-street, the smasher resided, and it was to this turning that our two detectives were bending their steps.It was the resort of thieves and all sorts of disreputable characters, many of whom were well known to the police. They had got about twenty yards or so down the court or alley, when Mr. Wrench was accosted by a woman who was a native of the Emerald Isle.“Ah, good luck to ye, Mr. Wrench,” said the woman, making a curtsey, “An’ it’s right ye are this time if any jintleman iver was. Oh, sure, now aint he fast asleep in the front room, and a snorin’ like a dozen fat hogs?”“He’s in his room, Winny, is he?” cried Wrench.“Didn’t I see him myself wid my own precious eyes not a moment ago? Oh, bedad, he’s a waitin’ for ye, and no mistake at all at all.”That’s all right, then, Winny; we’ll pay the gentleman a visit.”“Oh, the thief of the world; but he’s a dirty circumvinting blackguard, mek the best av him. But arrah don’t ye be afther saying a word about me, or maybe he’d be a little rampageous like.”“I won’t mention your name—depend upon that,” said Wrench. “We never do that in cases of this sort; besides, you know, there is no occasion.”“Thin, I’ll be afther going, or maybe he might suspect something. Oh, but ye’ve jest come in the nick of time. My duty to ye, Mr. Wrinch, and good luck to ye.”The old Irishwoman at once disappeared from the scene. Whither she went Mr. Shearman had not the faintest notion; neither did he take the trouble to inquire.The detectives now arrived in front of a miserably dirty and dilapidated habitation; indeed, it was so covered with filth, and such an offensive odour came from the place, that Mr. Shearman half regretted having set out on the expedition.Mr. Wrench went into the passage, opened the door of the front room and entered. He was followed by the American. On a dirty mattress which was on a ricketty bedstead, an old man was stretched—that he was sleeping soundly was evident enough.Mr. Wrench nodded significantly to Shearman.“Your man?” whispered the latter.“Yes, that’s my gentleman.”The room was dimly illumined by a gas lamp in the court, the feeble rays of which found their way through the dingy window panes. There was, therefore, light enough to distinguish the features of the sleeping man with tolerable distinctness.“Now then, wake up, man! you are wanted,” cried Mr. Wrench, in a loud voice.The sleeper uttered a kind of sigh or groan, and then, opening his eyes, he beheld those of an officer looking into his own.“Curses on you, what brings you here?” cried the “smasher.” “Get out—will you? Leave me alone.”“Come, come, Dawes, you’re wanted, and you are my prisoner.”“What for? I aint done anything. It’s a lie, I aint your prisoner, and don’t intend to be.”He sprang out of bed and glared round the room like a wild beast.“Get away, will you?” cried he. “If you don’t—” he paused suddenly, and made a hideous grimace, which he intended for a look of defiance.“Wall, stranger,” said Shearman, “it’s no good hollering. You’re cornered—aint got a ghost of a chance. The game’s up, you’d better go quietly.”“Who are you, I should like to know; and what business have either of you here?” cried the “smasher,” making a hideous grimace, which he intended to be a look of defiance.“If you are going to ride rusty,” observed Mr. Wrench, “say so, and we shall know what to do.”“Perhaps you will first of all tell me what you have come here for? I aint done nuthin’ as I know of.”“Well, that is a matter of opinion. You are charged with passing bad money—with ‘smashing,’ and you are my prisoner.”“It’s a lie. I aint passed any bad money for ever so long, and so you may take your change out of that, Mr. Wrench.”“I am not here to take any change, as you term it, but I shall have to take you, and you had better put on your coat and hat and come along with me to Bow-street.”Mr. Wrench had observed upon his first entrance a sort of trap-door in the centre of the room. The boards had been cut away so as to afford a place of retreat for the “smasher.” Had he succeeded in passing through this into the cellar below, he would doubtless have succeeded in making his escape, but our detective had the forethought to stand on the trap while he was interrogating the man, Dawes.“You see,” he said, with admirable coolness, addressing himself to the smasher, “there is no chance for you to effect an escape, so come on at once. The game is up.”“Curses on you!” exclaimed Dawes. “You’re a meddling dirty crew, the whole lot of you, and if I had my way you would have been sent to kickereboo long ago.”“Oh, I dare say—but you see fellows of your class are not permitted to have it all your own way. Now then, man, look sharp. Put on your coat and hat at once, or otherwise I shall have to take you as you are.”The man was only partially dressed, having on only his shirt and trousers.In appearance he was a ruffian of the very worst type, and had there been a chance he would have offered an obstinate resistance, but he was taken by surprise and did not see very clearly any way of getting out of his present difficulty.“Vell,” he said, in a sulky tone, “if yer vants me, which I ’spose yer do, I’d better put on my togs and be off with you.”No.56.Illustration: A MAGNIFICENT BLACKA MAGNIFICENT BLACK WAS BROUGHT BY THE OSTLER, AND THE STRANGER MOUNTED.He went to a corner of the room, drew forth a coat and waistcoat, which he put on in a leisurely manner; then he drew on a pair of highlows and, lastly, his hat. When this had been done he made a sudden rush towards the door in the hope of making his escape, but Mr. Wrench, who had been watching him, was prepared for this; he tripped his man up—and as he lay on the floor clapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists, and then told him to get up.Dawes was by this time completely cowed; he rose to his feet, cast a malevolent look upon the American and Mr. Wrench, and then walked towards the door, held firmly the while by the English detective, who conducted him safely enough to Bow-street, where, after the charge had been entered, he was locked up till the morning, when he would be taken before the magistrate.“He was disposed to be nasty,” said Mr. Shearman to his companion, after they had left the police station, “and is a sort of gentleman I fancy who wouldn’t stick at a trifle.”“Oh, dear me, no—a regular bad un. Wouldn’t mind what he did if he only had the chance.”“Is the evidence fully clear?”“It is. We’ve got him as straight as an arrow. There’s half a dozen cases against him. Oh, he’s safe to be convicted; he knows that well enough. He is a most daring and determined ‘smasher.’ Just to give you an idea how these fellows carry on their business I’ll tell you of one case. A shop was opened a few days ago in the neighbourhood of Oxford-street. It was a publication and cigar business, which was left in charge of a young girl, the niece of the proprietor. On the day it was first opened one of the smashing fraternity went into the shop and bought half a quire of note paper. He tendered a florin, which the girl changed. Half an hour afterwards another of the same respectable body of men purchased some tobacco. He also tendered a florin, which was changed. Six florins were taken in the course of the day and five shillings. Upon the proprietor of the establishment coming home in the evening he was delighted to find that there had been so many customers; but, alas! upon his looking over his money he found that the six florins and five shillings were all bad ones.”“And where do the rascals get all these bad coins from?” inquired Mr. Shearman.“They are sent up in boxes or cases from one or more of our provincial towns, and bought by the ‘smashers’ for next door to nothing. The man I have just ‘quodded’ has been following the calling for years.”
Charles Peace, as he wended his way homewards after his escapade at Mr. Metcalf’s house, was almost bewildered with the singular adventure that had taken place.
He could not in any way account for the altered position of the girl whom he had been so intimately acquainted with years before at Bradford.
He could not fail to understand that she was altered in every way. Her manners did not appear to resemble those of the mill-hand who was at one time his constant companion.
How the metamorphosis had taken place, and how she was able to assume the grace and demeanour of a well-bred woman to such perfection, was a matter he could not account for.
He felt ashamed of himself, if he ever had any shame in him. The better term would perhaps be that he was deeply mortified.
He had been foiled by a woman. He had let her have it all her own way, had given up the stolen property without a murmur or even so much as a feeble attempt to retain possession of it.
This he did not so much regret, for after all it was but the loss of a few trinkets.
He was too great an adept at his art to repine at being baffled in this instance, but he was very much chagrined at being looked down upon by one whom he had considered at an earlier day as an equal if not an inferior.
“She’s done the trick, the saucy jade—done it to rights,” he ejaculated. “How she has managed it is another question. Well, I’m regularly queered, but I suppose I shall never know the rights of it—never.”
He was of course in a terrible bad humour when he returned to his habitation in the Evelina-road, and half regretted not having returned with Bandy-legged Bill, for he would have given almost anything rather than have encountered Mrs. Metcalf.
It was gall and wormwood to him to see her under the circumstances, but it was too late now—he could not recall the past; he had seen her, and the worst was over. He determined upon avoiding such another reincontre.
Peace, as we have intimated more than once, had very little feeling in his whole composition, but he was at times a prey to jealousy, and he was most certainly both jealous and envious in this case—he was envious of Mrs. Metcalf’s superior position.
As far as the woman herself was concerned, he cared perhaps but little about her; but he did not like to be lorded over—he did not like the tone of superiority she assumed, and it is likely enough, under any other circumstances, he would have hurled at her a perfect shower of epithets and virulent abuse. He was, however, unable to do so; upon meeting her in her own house, to use his own expression, he was regularly “floored.”
Upon arriving at his own domicile he at once made for the stables. He found “Tommy” properly stalled, and the valuables he had purloined carefully secreted by the gipsy in the place he had named.
So far all was satisfactory, and after seeing to this he retired to rest.
The history of the two women—Mrs. Bristow and Bessie Dalton—is in many respects a romantic one. We have not taken note of them for a long time, but doubtless those who have perused these pages will remember that a number of Bank of England notes were found secreted in a looking-glass—behind the plate and back-board of that useful piece of furniture.
The notes represented in the aggregate many thousands of pounds.
When Mrs. Bristow and her faithful companion and friend, Bessie Dalton, arrived in London they changed their names, as they had changed their condition in life.
Mrs. Bristow, although the wife of a working engineer, was tolerably well connected, certainly better than most women in the same walk of life.
She took an elegant suite of apartments in Brook-street, Grosvenor-square, and having ample means at her disposal, she lived in good style, and in the due course of time contrived to get introduced into society, as it is termed—that is, she became acquainted with people who moved in the upper circles.
Bessie passed as her younger sister, and as time went on they both improved, became more polished in their manners, dropped provincialisms as much as possible, and really turned out very creditable specimens of unostentatious gentility, and were pretty generally liked, for their kindliness of heart and unobtrusive manners and demeanour.
They were introduced to Mr. Metcalf, a rich city merchant, and frequently paid visits at his house at Greenwich.
He was seized with a sudden fit of illness—a virulent fever.
Bessie Dalton volunteered her services as nurse, and her attention was so unremitting, her gentleness was made so manifest on many occasions, that it laid the foundation of a deep and endless love which found its way into the heart of Mr. Metcalf.
The result of all this was an offer of marriage, and Bessie Dalton became the wife of, as she told Charles Peace, an honourable gentleman.
Soon after this Mrs. Bristow found a husband in the person of an obese widower, with two daughters.
This is a brief account of the factory hands who rode to rank and fortune upon a bundle of bank notes found in the looking-glass of a deceased miser.
The history is a romantic one, but not more so than we find in the affairs of every day life. Life is full of romance to those who have the wit to see it, and the one we have been describing is based on fact. This the writer could prove beyond all cavil.
But our scene shifts to other characters in this veritable history.
Mr. Shearman, who had so industriously and cleverly ferreted out the murderer of the American planter’s daughter, was, as a matter of course, much chagrined when he heard of Doctor Bourne’s suicide.
Justice had been baffled and baulked. It is true the end would have been much the same—with this difference, however, instead of coming by his death from the effects of prussic acid, the doctor would have had to meet his fate on the public scaffold.
Mr. Shearman, in common with the majority of his countrymen, had a certain amount of respect, or, it might be said, admiration for the mother country; he therefore embraced the opportunity afforded him of seeing something of London life before he returned to the United States. He was, as we have already seen, on the best of terms with our old friend Wrench, and at the latter’s instigation he had put up at Sanderson’s Hotel, where, it will be remembered, Peace sojourned for a short period after his leaving Broxbridge. The buxom widow, Mrs. Sanderson, made the American and the persons he had under his charge—these being the witnesses in the Bourne case—as comfortable as possible, and Mr. Wrench generally dropped in on those evenings upon which he was disengaged to have a friendly chat with Shearman.
To all appearance the American detective liked the old country so well that he was loth to leave it. Anyway he remained as long as circumstances would warrant.
The day, however, was drawing nigh upon which Mr. Shearman was destined to take his departure.
“The best of friends must part,” said he, as Mr. Wrench dropped in on the evening before the appointed time. “I’ve enjoyed myself and seen more of the old country than I ever expected to do this journey, and I have to return you many thanks, Wrench, for all the trouble you have been at on my behalf. If you should ever have to come to the States the first person you will inquire for, I hope and trust, will be me.”
“That you may rest assured of.”
“It’s turned out a bit of a frost this business, but it can’t be helped. Confound old Bourne for making away with himself, say I.”
“He’s gone to that bourne from whence no traveller returns,” observed Wrench, with a smile. “Excuse the pun.”
“I’d excuse anything in you; but now you have come we’ll make a night of it, as possibly it may be the last we shall be able to pass together for one while.”
“Can’t be done just now,” returned Wrench. “Have a little matter on hand.”
“The devil! What—something particularly urgent?”
“Rather so.”
“What might it be, if it’s a fair question?”
“I’m after an old scoundrel whom I hope to take to-night—he’s a well-known thief. We’ve got one or two cases against him.”
“What’s he been up to, then?”
“Oh, his old caper—smashing.”
“Are you going to pull the string this evening, then?”
“Yes, in less than half an hour.”
“And after then?”
“Oh, well, then I shall be at your service.”
“Very good then, I’ll wait here for you—shall I?”
“Just as you like; or you may go with me, if you prefer it.”
“I should much prefer it—very much.”
The two detectives in a few minutes after this sallied forth from Sanderson’s hotel in quest of the “smasher.”
“He’s an old hand, I suppose,” said Mr. Shearman.
“Old hand, bless you, yes; he’s been a thief all his life, but he’s a stranger to me, or rather was, but a few days ago. I saw a chap yesterday, who had six years’ penal servitude; met him by chance in the street. He is leading an honest course of life now, and has been doing so for some years. He’s one of the few that have reformed. Well, this old scoundrel, whose arrest for smashing I am bent on I did not know much about. Well, as I was saying, I met the other one, whose name is Kedge. I asked him if he knew anything about my ‘smasher.’”
“Know? Of course,” said he. “Why you know who he is—don’t you?”
“Well, no, I can’t say that I do.”
“He had ten years for breaking into a public-house in Oxford-street sixteen years ago. Well, after his return from transportation, he goes to the public, calls for something to drink, and as he stood in front of the bar he asked the landlord if he kept the house sixteen years before. ‘No,’ says the landlord, ‘I did not.’ ‘Sure on it,’ says Hardy—that’s his name, though he calls himself Mr. Dawes—‘sure on it?’ says he.”
“Quite sure,” says the landlord, “who, I fancy, suspected something was wrong.”
“Well, then, I b’lieve you’re telling a thundering lie. Do you remember charging a man with burglary sixteen years ago?”
“No, I do not,” says the landlord. “I never charged anyone with burglary in all my born days.”
“I’m glad on it,” said Hardy, “for if you’d been the man as got me convicted of burglary, I’d have had yer life—that’s all.”
“You see, Mr. Wrench,” said Kedge, “Hardy wasn’t sartin about his being the same man, and it’s likely enough the landlord saved his life by declaring he was not the person who kept the house sixteen years before. Of course he was greatly altered in his appearance—so much so that the returned convict did not know him.”
“It was lucky for the bung,” observed Shearman.
“Very lucky, for he’s a desperate old scoundrel is this Dawes, as he now calls himself, but I shall be able to prove several previous convictions against him, I’ve no doubt, but let me make sure of my man first.”
Mr. Wrench made the best of his way to Drury-lane. In one of the narrow turnings, which led from that place to Great Wild-street, the smasher resided, and it was to this turning that our two detectives were bending their steps.
It was the resort of thieves and all sorts of disreputable characters, many of whom were well known to the police. They had got about twenty yards or so down the court or alley, when Mr. Wrench was accosted by a woman who was a native of the Emerald Isle.
“Ah, good luck to ye, Mr. Wrench,” said the woman, making a curtsey, “An’ it’s right ye are this time if any jintleman iver was. Oh, sure, now aint he fast asleep in the front room, and a snorin’ like a dozen fat hogs?”
“He’s in his room, Winny, is he?” cried Wrench.
“Didn’t I see him myself wid my own precious eyes not a moment ago? Oh, bedad, he’s a waitin’ for ye, and no mistake at all at all.”
That’s all right, then, Winny; we’ll pay the gentleman a visit.”
“Oh, the thief of the world; but he’s a dirty circumvinting blackguard, mek the best av him. But arrah don’t ye be afther saying a word about me, or maybe he’d be a little rampageous like.”
“I won’t mention your name—depend upon that,” said Wrench. “We never do that in cases of this sort; besides, you know, there is no occasion.”
“Thin, I’ll be afther going, or maybe he might suspect something. Oh, but ye’ve jest come in the nick of time. My duty to ye, Mr. Wrinch, and good luck to ye.”
The old Irishwoman at once disappeared from the scene. Whither she went Mr. Shearman had not the faintest notion; neither did he take the trouble to inquire.
The detectives now arrived in front of a miserably dirty and dilapidated habitation; indeed, it was so covered with filth, and such an offensive odour came from the place, that Mr. Shearman half regretted having set out on the expedition.
Mr. Wrench went into the passage, opened the door of the front room and entered. He was followed by the American. On a dirty mattress which was on a ricketty bedstead, an old man was stretched—that he was sleeping soundly was evident enough.
Mr. Wrench nodded significantly to Shearman.
“Your man?” whispered the latter.
“Yes, that’s my gentleman.”
The room was dimly illumined by a gas lamp in the court, the feeble rays of which found their way through the dingy window panes. There was, therefore, light enough to distinguish the features of the sleeping man with tolerable distinctness.
“Now then, wake up, man! you are wanted,” cried Mr. Wrench, in a loud voice.
The sleeper uttered a kind of sigh or groan, and then, opening his eyes, he beheld those of an officer looking into his own.
“Curses on you, what brings you here?” cried the “smasher.” “Get out—will you? Leave me alone.”
“Come, come, Dawes, you’re wanted, and you are my prisoner.”
“What for? I aint done anything. It’s a lie, I aint your prisoner, and don’t intend to be.”
He sprang out of bed and glared round the room like a wild beast.
“Get away, will you?” cried he. “If you don’t—” he paused suddenly, and made a hideous grimace, which he intended for a look of defiance.
“Wall, stranger,” said Shearman, “it’s no good hollering. You’re cornered—aint got a ghost of a chance. The game’s up, you’d better go quietly.”
“Who are you, I should like to know; and what business have either of you here?” cried the “smasher,” making a hideous grimace, which he intended to be a look of defiance.
“If you are going to ride rusty,” observed Mr. Wrench, “say so, and we shall know what to do.”
“Perhaps you will first of all tell me what you have come here for? I aint done nuthin’ as I know of.”
“Well, that is a matter of opinion. You are charged with passing bad money—with ‘smashing,’ and you are my prisoner.”
“It’s a lie. I aint passed any bad money for ever so long, and so you may take your change out of that, Mr. Wrench.”
“I am not here to take any change, as you term it, but I shall have to take you, and you had better put on your coat and hat and come along with me to Bow-street.”
Mr. Wrench had observed upon his first entrance a sort of trap-door in the centre of the room. The boards had been cut away so as to afford a place of retreat for the “smasher.” Had he succeeded in passing through this into the cellar below, he would doubtless have succeeded in making his escape, but our detective had the forethought to stand on the trap while he was interrogating the man, Dawes.
“You see,” he said, with admirable coolness, addressing himself to the smasher, “there is no chance for you to effect an escape, so come on at once. The game is up.”
“Curses on you!” exclaimed Dawes. “You’re a meddling dirty crew, the whole lot of you, and if I had my way you would have been sent to kickereboo long ago.”
“Oh, I dare say—but you see fellows of your class are not permitted to have it all your own way. Now then, man, look sharp. Put on your coat and hat at once, or otherwise I shall have to take you as you are.”
The man was only partially dressed, having on only his shirt and trousers.
In appearance he was a ruffian of the very worst type, and had there been a chance he would have offered an obstinate resistance, but he was taken by surprise and did not see very clearly any way of getting out of his present difficulty.
“Vell,” he said, in a sulky tone, “if yer vants me, which I ’spose yer do, I’d better put on my togs and be off with you.”
No.56.
Illustration: A MAGNIFICENT BLACKA MAGNIFICENT BLACK WAS BROUGHT BY THE OSTLER, AND THE STRANGER MOUNTED.
A MAGNIFICENT BLACK WAS BROUGHT BY THE OSTLER, AND THE STRANGER MOUNTED.
He went to a corner of the room, drew forth a coat and waistcoat, which he put on in a leisurely manner; then he drew on a pair of highlows and, lastly, his hat. When this had been done he made a sudden rush towards the door in the hope of making his escape, but Mr. Wrench, who had been watching him, was prepared for this; he tripped his man up—and as he lay on the floor clapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists, and then told him to get up.
Dawes was by this time completely cowed; he rose to his feet, cast a malevolent look upon the American and Mr. Wrench, and then walked towards the door, held firmly the while by the English detective, who conducted him safely enough to Bow-street, where, after the charge had been entered, he was locked up till the morning, when he would be taken before the magistrate.
“He was disposed to be nasty,” said Mr. Shearman to his companion, after they had left the police station, “and is a sort of gentleman I fancy who wouldn’t stick at a trifle.”
“Oh, dear me, no—a regular bad un. Wouldn’t mind what he did if he only had the chance.”
“Is the evidence fully clear?”
“It is. We’ve got him as straight as an arrow. There’s half a dozen cases against him. Oh, he’s safe to be convicted; he knows that well enough. He is a most daring and determined ‘smasher.’ Just to give you an idea how these fellows carry on their business I’ll tell you of one case. A shop was opened a few days ago in the neighbourhood of Oxford-street. It was a publication and cigar business, which was left in charge of a young girl, the niece of the proprietor. On the day it was first opened one of the smashing fraternity went into the shop and bought half a quire of note paper. He tendered a florin, which the girl changed. Half an hour afterwards another of the same respectable body of men purchased some tobacco. He also tendered a florin, which was changed. Six florins were taken in the course of the day and five shillings. Upon the proprietor of the establishment coming home in the evening he was delighted to find that there had been so many customers; but, alas! upon his looking over his money he found that the six florins and five shillings were all bad ones.”
“And where do the rascals get all these bad coins from?” inquired Mr. Shearman.
“They are sent up in boxes or cases from one or more of our provincial towns, and bought by the ‘smashers’ for next door to nothing. The man I have just ‘quodded’ has been following the calling for years.”